“Of course you wouldn’t, my dear. Don’t think I am blaming you in the least. I was merely thinking that I am not nearly as far-seeing as I thought. And the second time, Edna?”
“That was last night. I drove to the Salvation Hall and asked him to stop the strike. I told him——-”
Edna began to cry afresh. Her father, who had been sitting opposite her, crossed to her side, and put his arm about her.
“Don’t say another word, my dear, and don’t think about it. I’ll not ask you another question. You mustn’t make people think you have been crying. They will imagine I have been scolding you, and thus you will destroy my well-won reputation for being the mildest man in London.”
The girl smiled through her tears, and nothing more was said until they reached the hospital door.
“How is Marsten, who was brought here last night?” inquired Sartwell, of the doctor who received him.
“Oh, getting on very well, under the circumstances.”
“The papers say his condition is dangerous.”
“I don’t anticipate any danger, unless there are internal injuries that we know nothing of. Some of his ribs are broken, and he got a nasty blow on the back of his head. He seems rather weak and dispirited this morning, but his mind is clear. I was somewhat anxious about that, for he was a long time unconscious.”
“There,” said Sartwell to his daughter, who stood with parted lips listening intently to what the doctor said. “I told you the papers made the case out worse than it was. Might we see Mr. Marsten?”