"There's nothing for anybody at home. And we've parted with pretty near everything. The house is just left bare. They've helped us at the shops, till they say they can't go on no longer. I don't know how it'll all end. I've got nobody to help me, nor nobody to turn to."
Molly Hicks sat down on the doorstep of the Holdfasts' cottage, and rocked the baby to and fro. It set up a faint whimper, as if in response, but seemed too weak to cry.
"Don't stay there. You'll give the child its death of cold. Come in, and you shall have a cup of tea," said Sarah, "and some milk for baby."
Mrs. Hicks obeyed the invitation with alacrity.
Tea-things were still on the table, for Mrs. Holdfast had delayed for once putting them away until the children were in bed. She was glad now of Bessie's unwonted sleepiness. A little boiling water added to the remains of tea in the tea-pot, soon produced a very drinkable cup; and Molly disposed of it eagerly. A big slice of bread and butter awaited her also; but she turned from it, to soak scraps of dry bread in a saucer of milk, and to squeeze them between the tiny creature's parched lips. Sarah looked on with tearful eyes.
"There! Not too fast," she said. "Take something yourself now."
"I don't know how to thank you enough, that I don't," said Molly Hicks at length, when her wants and those of the baby seemed both satisfied. "I haven't had such a meal for days. It's not a bit of good to say one word to my husband. He won't listen. If he'd a grain of sense, he'd be back at work—now work's to be had. But he won't. He's as obstinate—!"
"One man's afraid to stir without the rest stirring too," said Sarah.
"Then he'd ought to think of his children, and put his fears in his pocket," said Molly.
"You didn't think like that in the beginning of the strike," Sarah ventured to say.