Edna rapped lightly on the door at the back of the Salvation Hall, and heard Marsten’s voice shout “Come in.” After a moment’s hesitation she opened the door and entered. The young man was alone, sitting at the rough board table, with some papers before him, writing rapidly with a pencil. He seemed absorbed in his work, and kept his head bent over it, saying shortly:
“Well, what is it?”
Edna stood with her back against the door; she tried to speak, but could not. Her heart was beating so rapidly that it seemed to choke her, and her lips were dry. The murmur of numerous voices came through the thin board partitions from the main hall, with the noise of the shuffling of many feet. Marsten continued to write quickly; then suddenly he lifted his head with a jerk, stared incredulously in the gathering darkness, and sprang to his feet.
“My God—Edna!” he cried, and seemed about to advance towards her; but she raised her hand, and he stood by the table with his knuckles resting upon it.
“I came——” She spoke in a whisper, so husky and unnatural that it seemed to her the voice belonged to some one else. “I came——to speak to you——about the strike.”
“Yes?”
“It must stop.”
“It will stop within a day or two. Monkton & Hope are defeated.”
“You mean that my father is defeated. It is killing him, I can see that, although he tries——He does not know I have come here. I came of my own accord because you——If you will get the men to go back, I give you my word that he will grant all you are fighting for. All I ask is that you will not make it hard for him. The men do not care as long as they get what they want. Will you do this?”
“Do you mean I am to call the strike off and pretend that the men are defeated?”