"He'll never be hungry again," she whispered. "Think of that, my dear; and don't you want him back. There 'll be no strikes up there. He's got to the end of all the trouble. Don't you go and say that to your husband when he comes. Stevens 'll have enough to bear!"
Enough indeed! There was not one of his children whom Stevens loved as he loved baby Harry.
An hour later he returned, light-footed and eager with the news which, he felt sure, would gladden Martha's heart. The door was flung open, and he entered briskly.
"I say, Martha, it's all right! We've settled to accept the masters' proposals, and I'll be off to work to-morrow morning. It's all right. Just as you wanted."
A gesture from Mrs. Holdfast checked Roger. She was present still, having persuaded a neighbour to stay with her own little ones for a time.
Martha sat beside the cot, dropping hot quiet tears at intervals, and the desolate look of the mother's eyes, lifted to his, Stevens would not soon forget.
"Too late now!" she whispered.
Roger's glance went from her to the small face on the pillow—the face of his own little Harry, the child who till lately had never failed to greet him with a joyous spring, and cry of "Dadda." Harry had always been the father's especial pet. Even of late, when the child was too weak to spring or cry out, the tiny face had always brightened at the sound of Roger's voice.
It did not brighten now; yet that was no look of common sleep. Roger knew the difference.
"You don't say—What's the matter? Why don't you give him something, eh? Letting him lie there! And the room as cold—! What d'you want for him, Martha? Tell me, sharp, and I'll get it. I can now; we're going to work again, and it'll be all right."