"We must have a bit of a blaze to warm him," she said. "He does seem bad. Speak to him, Millie. He always likes your voice, you know."
Millie's blue fingers strayed lovingly over the wan baby-face.
"Harry—Harry," she cooed softly. "Wake up, Harry."
"He's too cold, and he wants food," said Martha, as there was no response. "You just hold him careful a minute, Millie, while I get a bit of bread. I'll try again. There's a drop of milk still."
She crumbled the bread into the milk, and tried to feed the child, but he moaned and turned away. A spoonful of milk, slightly warmed, she held next to the pale lips—still in vain. None was swallowed. Harry only seemed to be fretted by her attempts; and there was a weak little wail of complaint. Martha gave it up, and took him back into her arms.
"I don't like him being like this," she said uneasily. "It isn't his way. He used to be such a healthy little fellow."
"Is it the strike, mother?" asked Bobbie.
"It's being half-starved—and that's the strike," she said.
"Then I wish there wasn't no strike," said Bobbie.
Roger Stevens came into the room at this juncture.