They had not been wed a year when all Brent and Wellwood’s men came out on strike. Willy was in the Union, so with a pinch they scrambled through. The furniture was not all paid for, and other debts were incurred. She worried and contrived, he left it to her. But he was a good husband; he gave her all he had. The men were out fifteen weeks. They had been back just over a year when Willy had an accident in the mine, tearing his bladder. At the pit head the doctor talked of the hospital. Losing his head entirely, the young collier raved like a madman, what with pain and fear of hospital. “Tha s’lt go whoam, Willy, tha s’lt go whoam,” the deputy said. A lad warned the wife to have the bed ready. Without speaking or hesitating she prepared. But when the ambulance came, and she heard him shout with pain at being moved, she was afraid lest she should sink down. They carried him in. “Yo’ should ’a’ had a bed i’ th’ parlour, Missis,” said the deputy, “then we shouldna ha’ had to hawkse ’im upstairs, an’ it ’ud ’a’ saved your legs.” But it was too late now. They got him upstairs. “They let me lie, Lucy,” he was crying, “they let me lie two mortal hours on th’ sleck afore they took me outer th’ stall. Th’ peen, Lucy, th’ peen; oh, Lucy, th’ peen, th’ peen!” “I know th’ pain’s bad, Willy, I know. But you must try an’ bear it a bit.” “Tha munna carry on in that form, lad, thy missis’ll niver be able ter stan’ it,” said the deputy. “I canna ’elp it, it’s th’ peen, it’s th’ peen,” he cried again. He had never been ill in his life. When he had smashed a finger he could look at the wound. But this pain came from inside, and terrified him. At last he was soothed and exhausted. It was some time before she could undress him and wash him. He would let no other woman do for him, having that savage modesty usual in such men. For six weeks he was in bed, suffering much pain. The doctors were not quite sure what was the matter with him, and scarcely knew what to do. He could eat, he did not lose flesh, nor strength, yet the pain continued, and he could hardly walk at all. In the sixth week the men came out in the national strike. He would get up quite early in the morning and sit by the window. On Wednesday, the second week of the strike, he sat gazing out on the street as usual, a bullet-headed young man, still vigorous-looking, but with a peculiar expression of hunted fear in his face. “Lucy,” he called, “Lucy!” She, pale and worn, ran upstairs at his bidding. “Gi’e me a han’kercher,” he said. “Why, you’ve got one,” she replied, coming near. “Tha nedna touch me,” he cried. Feeling his pocket, he produced a white handkerchief. “I non want a white un, gi’e me a red un,” he said. “An’ if anybody comes to see you,” she answered, giving him a red handkerchief. “Besides,” she continued, “you needn’t ha’ brought me upstairs for that.” “I b’lieve th’ peen’s commin’ on again,” he said, with a little horror in his voice.