d inspect the view."

Neither girl noted this abrupt and absurd change of plan. He departed.
As soon as he had gone half a dozen steps, Selma said in her quick,
direct fashion:

"I've come to see you about the strike."

Jane tried to look cool and reserved. But that sort of expression
seemed foolish in face of the simplicity and candor of Selma Gordon.
Also, Jane was not now so well pleased with her father's ideas and
those of her own interest as she had been while she was talking with
him. The most exasperating thing about the truth is that, once one has
begun to see it--has begun to see what is for him the truth--the honest
truth--he can not hide from it ever again. So, instead of looking cold
and repellant, Jane looked uneasy and guilty. "Oh, yes--the strike,"
she murmured.

"It is over," said Selma. "The union met a half hour ago and revoked
its action--on Victor Dorn's advice. He showed the men that they had
been trapped into striking by the company--that a riot was to be
started and blamed upon them--that the militia was to be called in and
they were to be shot down."

"Oh, no--not that!" cried Jane eagerly. "It wouldn't have gone as far
as that."

"Yes--as far as that," said Selma calmly. "That sort of thing is an
old story. It's been done so often--and worse. You see, the
respectable gentlemen who run things hire disreputable creatures. They
don't tell them what to do. They don't need to. The poor wretches
understand what's expected of them--and they do it. So, the
respectable gentlemen can hold up white hands and say quite truthfully,
'No blood-no filth on these--see!"' Selma was laughing drearily. Her
superb, primitive eyes, set ever so little aslant, were flashing with
an intensity of emotion that gave Jane Hastings a sensation of
terror-much as if a man who has always lived where there were no
storms, but such gentle little rains with restrained and refined
thunder as usually visit the British Isles, were to find himself in the
midst of one of those awful convulsions that come crashing down the
gorges of the Rockies. She marveled that one so small of body could
contain such big emotions.

"You mustn't be unjust," she pleaded. "WE aren't THAT wicked, my dear."

Selma looked at her. "No matter," she said. "I am not trying to
convert you--or to denounce your friends to you. I'll explain what
I've come for. In his speech to-day and in inducing the union to
change, Victor has shown