r sobs. "It's
all right--I'm ready--I'll come to you, Joe--but not now--not just now!
Go away, both of you--leave me alone!"

Joe left the house. Soon after that Eleanore arrived and I told her what
had happened. She went in to Sue, I left them together and went up to
my father's room. He lay on the bed breathing quickly.

"You did splendidly, son," he said. "You slashed into her hard. It hurt
me to listen--but it's all right. Let her suffer--she had to. It hit
her, I tell you--she'll break down! If we can only keep her here! Get
Eleanore!"

He stopped with a jerk, his hand went to his heart, and he panted and
scowled with pain.

"I sent for her," I told him. "She's come and she's in Sue's room now.
Let's leave them alone. It's going to be all right, Dad."

I sent for a doctor who was an old friend of my father's. He came and
spent a long time in the room, and I could hear them talking. At last he
came out.

"It won't do," he said. "We can't have any more of this. We must keep
your sister out of his sight. She can't stay alone with him in this
house, and she can't go now to your anarchist friend. If she does it may
be the end of your father. Suppose you persuade her to come to you."

But here Eleanore joined us.

"I have a better plan," she said. "I've been talking to Sue and she has
agreed. She's to stay--and we'll move over here and try to keep Sue and
her father apart."

"What about Joe?" I asked her.

"Sue has promised me not to see Joe until the strike is over. It will
only be a matter of weeks--perhaps even days--it may break out
to-morrow. It's not much of a time for Joe to get married--besides, it's
the least she can do for her father--to wait that long. And she has
agreed. So that much is settled."

She went home to pack up a few things for the night. When she came back
it was evening. She spent some time with Sue in her room, while I stayed
in with father. I gave him a powder the doctor had left and he was soon
sleeping heavily.

At last in my old bedroom Eleanore and I were alone. It was a long time
before we could sleep.

"Funny," said Eleanore presently, "how thoroughly selfish people can be.
Here's Sue and your father going through a perfectly ghastly crisis. But
I haven't been thinking of them--not at all. I've been thinking of
us--of you, I mean--of what this strike will do to you. You're getting
so terribly tense these days."

I reached over and took her hand:

"You don't want me to