“She arsked for Marsten. She’s in with him now.” “Look here, mates,” cried Gibbons. “What have I been telling you? We’re sold, or I’m a Dutchman! That girl is Sartwell’s daughter, and I’ll warrant she has come direct from him. I say, cabby, did you drive that young lady here from the works?” “What’s that to you? You’re not paying my fare,” answered the cabman, with characteristic disregard of the threatening crowd. “He came from the works; I saw him,” said one of the men. “Let’s get inside, and call this meeting to order,” cried Gibbons, decisively. CHAPTER XXXVI. Edna rapped lightly on the door at the back of the Salvation Hall, and heard Marsten’s voice shout “Come in.” After a moment’s hesitation she opened the door and entered. The young man was alone, sitting at the rough board table, with some papers before him, writing rapidly with a pencil. He seemed absorbed in his work, and kept his head bent over it, saying shortly: “Well, what is it?” Edna stood with her back against the door; she tried to speak, but could not. Her heart was beating so rapidly that it seemed to choke her, and her lips were dry. The murmur of numerous voices came through the thin board partitions from the main hall, with the noise of the shuffling of many feet. Marsten continued to write quickly; then suddenly he lifted his head with a jerk, stared incredulously in the gathering darkness, and sprang to his feet. “My God--Edna!” he cried, and seemed about to advance towards her; but she raised her hand, and he stood by the table with his knuckles resting upon it. “I came----” She spoke in a whisper, so husky and unnatural that it seemed to her the voice belonged to some one else. “I came----to speak to you----about the strike.” “Yes?” “It must stop.” “It will stop within a day or two. Monkton & Hope are defeated.” “You mean that my father is defeated. It is killing him, I can see that, although he tries----He does not know I have come here. I came of my own accord because you----If you will get the men to go back, I give you my word that he will grant all you are fighting for. All I ask is that you will not make it hard for him. The men do not care as long as they get what they want. Will you do this?” “Do you mean I am to call the strike off and pretend that the men are defeated?” “Yes. It will be all the same in the end.” “Oh, I cannot do that.” “Why? The men do not care as long as they get what they ask. With my father it is different. He is breaking down. I know I am asking a great deal of you, for you feel as he does, and want to win as badly as he does; but he is old, and you are young. You have all the world before you. What need you care, then, whether you win this strike or not? There are other strikes for you to win, but he--he is fighting his last battle.”