“God’s truth, lad,” cried Braunt, with some impatience, “haven’t they been treating you like a traitor ever since this strike began? What’s the difference, if it does look like treachery? Think of the wives and children of the men, if not of the men themselves; think of those that no one has given a thought to all these weeks, the women workers in the top floor of the works. They’ve had little strike pay; they have no vote at the meetings, and they have to suffer and starve when they are willing to work. Treachery? I’d be a traitor a thousand times over to see the works going again.” “I’ll do it,” said Marsten. The young man had no money to waste on railway fare, so next morning early he set his face to the west, and trudged along the Portsmouth road the twelve miles’ distance between London and Surbiton. As he walked up the beautifully kept drive to the Hope mansion, he thought he saw the owner among the trees at the rear, pacing very dejectedly up and down a path. Marsten hesitated a moment, but finally decided to apply formally at the front door. The servant looked at him with evident suspicion, and, after learning his business, promptly returned, saying Mr. Hope could not see him. The door was shut upon him, but Marsten felt sure Mr. Hope had not been consulted in the matter; so, instead of going out by the gate he had entered, he went around the house to the plantation beyond, and there came upon Mr. Hope, who was much alarmed at seeing a stranger suddenly appear before him. “I am one of your workmen, Mr. Hope,” began Marsten, by way of reassuring the little man; but his words had an entirely opposite effect. Mr. Hope looked wildly to right and left of him, but, seeing no chance of escape, resigned himself, with a deep sigh, to dynamite, or whatever other shape this particular workingman’s arguments might take. “What do you want?” faltered the employer at last. “I want this strike to end.” “Oh, so do I, so do I!” cried Mr. Hope, almost in tears. “Then, Mr. Hope, won’t you allow me to speak with you for a few moments, and see if we cannot find some way out of the difficulty?” “Surely, surely,” replied the trembling old man, visibly relieved at finding his former employee did not intend to use the stout stick, which he carried in his hand, for the purpose of a personal assault. “Let us walk a little further from the house, where we can talk quietly. Have you anything to propose?” “Well, the chief trouble seems to be that Mr. Sart-well will not meet Gibbons.” “Ah, Sartwell!” said the old man, as if whispering to himself. “Sartwell is a strong man--a strong man; difficult to persuade--difficult to persuade.” Then turning suddenly he asked, “You’re not Gibbons, are you?” “No, my name is Marsten. Gibbons was the man who tried to speak with you yesterday at the gates.” The old man shuddered at the recollection.