"No tea for me, I s'pose," he said gloomily.
"There's a bit of bread, and a drop of milk," said Martha. "I'm out of tea, and I can't get any more. There's no money left, and only half a loaf for to-morrow. I durstn't touch that to-night."
Stevens came to the table, and munched a few mouthfuls of the dry crust hastily, drinking off the milk at one draught.
"I say; haven't you a drop more?"
"I'm keeping it for Harry. He hasn't taken a scrap of food all day. I can't make him. Seems like as if his stomach turned against it. He's ill, Roger."
She spoke plaintively.
"Oh, he'll be all right in a few days," said Stevens. Nevertheless, his eyes went uneasily to the small figure on Martha's knee. "It's the cold."
"Yes; cold and starvation. He's dying of the strike."
"Dying! Rubbish and nonsense!" Roger spoke angrily. "No more dying than you nor me. He wants feeding up a bit. The strike's just at an end, and he'll be all right then."
"Will he? Children don't get back strength so easy, once it's run down," said Martha. "How do you know the strike's at an end?"