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 considered himself when it came to a question of a conscientious struggle against injustice, though he was so prone to look upon both sides of an argument that his decision would have been necessarily slow; but here was Ellen to consider, and she was more than himself.  While he had been, in the depths of his heart, fiercely jealous of Robert Lloyd, yet the suspicion that his girl might suffer because of her renunciation of him hurt him to the quick.  Ellen had told him all she had done in the interests of the strike, and he had no doubt that her action would effectually put an end to all possible relations between the two.  He tried to imagine how a girl would feel, and being a man, and measuring all passion by the strength of his own, he exaggerated her suffering.  He could eat nothing, and looked haggard.  He remained out-of-doors the greater part of the day.  After he had cleared his own paths, he secured a job clearing some for a more prosperous neighbor.  Andrew in those days grasped eagerly at any little job which could bring him in a few pennies.  He worked until dark, and when he went home he saw with a great throb of excitement the Lloyd sleigh waiting before his door.

Robert had heard from Dennison of Ellen’s attitude about the strike.  He had been incredulous at first, as indeed he had been incredulous about the strike.  He had looked out of the office window with the gaze of one who does not believe what he sees when he had heard that retreating tramp of the workmen on the stairs.

“What does all this mean?” he said to Dennison, who entered, pale to his lips.

“It means a strike,” replied Dennison.  Nellie Stone rolled her pretty eyes around at the two men from under her fluff of blond hair.  Flynn came in and stood in a curious, non-committal attitude.

“A strike!” repeated Robert, vaguely.  “What for?”

It seemed incredible that he should ask, but he did.  The calm masterfulness of his uncle, which could not even imagine opposition, had apparently descended upon him.

Both foremen stared at him.  Nellie Stone smiled a little covertly.

“Why, you know you had a committee wait upon you last night, Mr. Lloyd,” replied Dennison.