s. There
were very few left in the factory. Among them were John Sargent, the
laster who was a deacon and had formed one of the consulting
committee, Sadie Peel, who wanted her nearseal cape, and Mamie
Brady, who would do nothing which she thought would displease the
foreman, Flynn.

"If father's mind to be such a fool, it's no reason why I should,"
said Sadie Peel, stitching determinedly away. Mamie Brady looked at
Flynn, when he came up to her, with a gentle, wheedling smile. There
was no one near, and she fancied that he might steal a kiss. But
instead he looked at her, frowning.

"No use you tying away any longer, Mamie," he said. "The strike's
on."

Chapter LIII

That was one of the strangest days which Ellen had ever passed. The
enforced idleness gave her an indefinite sense of guilt. She tried
to assist her mother about the household tasks, then she tried to
sew on the wrappers, but she was awkward about it, from long disuse.

"Do take your book and sit down and read and rest a little, now
you've got a chance," said Fanny, with sharp solicitude.

She said never one word concerning it to Ellen, but all the time she
thought how Ellen had probably lost her lover. It was really
doubtful which suffered the more that day, the mother or the
daughter. Fanny, entirely faithful to her own husband, had yet that
strange vicarious affection for her daughter's lover, and a
realization of her state of mind, of which a mother alone is
capable. It is like a cord of birth which is never severed. Not one
shadow of sad reflection passed over the bright enthusiastic face of
the girl but was passed on, as if driven by some wind of spirit,
over the face of the older woman. She reflected Ellen entirely.

As for Andrew, his anxiety was as tender, and less subtle. He did
not understand so clearly, but he suffered more. He was clumsy with
this mystery of womanhood, but he was unremitting in his efforts to
do something for the girl. Once he tiptoed up to Fanny and
whispered, when Ellen was in the next room, that he hoped she hadn't
made any mistake, that it seemed to him she looked pretty pale.

"Mistake?" cried Fanny, tossing her head, and staring at him
proudly. "Haven't you got any spirit, and you a man, Andrew
Brewster?"

"I ain't thinking about myself," said Andrew.

And he was quite right. Andrew, left to himself and his purely
selfish interests, could have struck with the foremost. He would
never have considere