daft over him since she's been there, and he don't look at
her. I don't see what there is about Ed Flynn, for my part."

"I don't," said Abby, dryly.

"Well, I don't know. He's pretty good-looking," said Sadie Peel,
"and he's got a sort of a way with him." All the time the girl was
talking her heart was aching. The foreman had paid her some little
attention, which she had taken seriously, but nobody except her
father had known it, or known when he had fallen off. Sometimes
Flynn, meeting the father's gaze as he passed him at his work at the
cutting-bench, used to waver involuntarily, though he asked himself
with perfect good faith what was it all about, for he had done the
girl no harm. He felt more guilty concerning Mamie Brady.

Ellen worked on, with her fingers flying and her forehead tense with
thought. The chatter of the girls ceased. They were too busy to keep
it up. The hum of work continued. Once Ellen knew, although she did
not see him, by some subtle disturbance of the atmosphere, a little
commotion which was perfectly silent, that Robert Lloyd had entered
the room. She knew when he passed her, and she worked more swiftly
than ever. After he had gone out there was a curiously inarticulate
sound like a low growl of purely animal dissent over the room; a
word of blasphemy sounded above the din of the machines. Then all
went on as before until the noon whistle blew.

Even then there was not so much discussion as might have been
expected. Robert, since the storm was so heavy, remained in the
office, and sent a boy out for a light luncheon, and the foremen
were much in evidence. There was always an uncertainty about their
sentiments, occupying as they did a position half-way between
employer and employes; and then, too, they were not affected by the
cut in wages. The sentiments of the unaffected are always a matter
of suspicion to those who suffer themselves. There were grumblings
carried on in a low key behind Flynn's back, but the atmosphere for
the most part was one of depression. Ellen ate her luncheon with
Maria and Abby. Willy Jones came up timidly when they were nearly
finished, feeling his way with a remark about the storm, which was
increasing.

"All the cars are tied up," he said, "and the noon train isn't in."

He leaned, with a curious effort at concealment from them all and
himself, upon the corner of the bench near Abby. Then a young man
passed them, with such an air of tragedy and such a dea