"That will do," said Connie. "Poor Dick!" And Miss Van Vetter, who was not of the stony-hearted, rose and went to the piano that she might not advertise her emotion.
Lansdale picked himself up out of the ruins of his attempt to do Bartrow a good turn, and hoped the worst was over. It was for the time; but later in the evening, when Myra had gone to the library for a book they had been talking about, Connie returned to the unfinished inquisition.
"You know more than you have told us about Dick's trouble," she said gravely. "Is it very serious?"
"Yes, rather." Lansdale made a sudden resolve to cleave to the facts in the case, telling as few of them as he might.
"It wasn't a strike at all, was it?"
"No; that was a little figure of speech. It is rather the lack of a strike—of the kind you meant."
"Poor boy! I don't wonder that it made him want to run away. He has worked so hard and so long, and his faith in the Little Myriad has been unbounded. What will he do?"
"I don't know that. In fact, I think he is not quite at the brink of things yet. But he is afraid it is coming to that."
"How did he talk? Is he very much discouraged? But of course he isn't; nothing discourages him."