“What is going to be done?” she asked, in a low voice.

Sargent turned and looked at her in a troubled fashion, and spoke in a pacific, soothing tone, as her father might have done.  He was much older than Ellen.

“Now look here, child,” he said, “I don’t dare take the responsibility of urging all these men into starvation this kind of weather.  The times are hard.  Lloyd has some reason—­”

Ellen walked away from him swiftly and went to the row of lasting-machines where Amos Lee and Tom Peel stood.  She walked up to them and spoke in a loud, clear voice.

“You are not going to give in?” said she.  “You don’t mean to give in?”

Lee turned and gave her one stare, and left his machine.

“Not another stitch of work will I do under this new wage-list, so help me, God!” he proclaimed.

Tom Peel stood for a second like an automaton, staring at them both.  Then he turned back to his post.

“I’m with ye,” he said.

The lasters, for some occult reason, were always the most turbulent element in Lloyd’s.  In less than three minutes the enthusiasm of revolt had spread, and every laster had left his machine.  In a half-hour more there was an exodus of workmen from Lloyd’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.