CHAPTER XI.

BABY HARRY.

"NO Sunday dinner to-morrow, mother," said Bobbie, late in the afternoon of a cold and wintry day. "I wish there was."

"Not much chance of Sunday dinners, till father brings home wages regular again," sighed Martha.

She looked thin and worn, poor woman, with weeks of insufficient food. Little enough came into the house these days; and what there was, she reserved, mother-like, as far as possible for the children, eating scarcely enough herself to keep soul and body together.

"I'm so hungry, mother. I'm always hungry," complained Bobbie. "We don't never have enough now. O mother, it used to be so nice on Sundays. It isn't now."

"No," she said patiently. "I haven't much for you to-morrow, Bobbie, without father brings anything home. And that ain't likely. I don't know whether—"

She paused to stoop over baby Harry. He was lying on the little cot-bed, covered by a shawl. A slight moaning had drawn her attention.

"He's so cold to-night. I don't like his look," she said anxiously. "Millie, just put one more scrap of coal on the fire. We mustn't use it all. But he's like ice."

"Harry hasn't eaten nothing all day," said Millie.

"He don't seem to have no appetite. He's got so low, for want of proper food—that's where it is," Martha said bitterly. "He turns against everything now. I'm sure I'm at my wits' end to know what to do. If he don't get better by Monday, I'll have to take him to the doctor's—not as it's much use. Good food's what he wants; and how am I to get it for him?"

She lifted the little fellow, and brought him close to the fire, where she sat down. Harry lay heavily across her knees, not looking up at any of them.

Martha leant forward to touch up the tiny fire.

"We must have a bit of a blaze to warm him," she said. "He does seem bad. Speak to him, Millie. He always likes your voice, you know."

Millie's blue fingers strayed lovingly over the wan baby-face.

"Harry—Harry," she cooed softly. "Wake up, Harry."

"He's too cold, and he wants food," said Martha, as there was no response. "You just hold him careful a minute, Millie, while I get a bit of bread. I'll try again. There's a drop of milk still."

She crumbled the bread into the milk, and tried to feed the child, but he moaned and turned away. A spoonful of milk, slightly warmed, she held next to the pale lips—still in vain. None was swallowed. Harry only seemed to be fretted by her attempts; and there was a weak little wail of complaint. Martha gave it up, and took him back into her arms.

"I don't like him being like this," she said uneasily. "It isn't his way. He used to be such a healthy little fellow."

"Is it the strike, mother?" asked Bobbie.

"It's being half-starved—and that's the strike," she said.

"Then I wish there wasn't no strike," said Bobbie.

Roger Stevens came into the room at this juncture.

"No tea for me, I s'pose," he said gloomily.

"There's a bit of bread, and a drop of milk," said Martha. "I'm out of tea, and I can't get any more. There's no money left, and only half a loaf for to-morrow. I durstn't touch that to-night."

Stevens came to the table, and munched a few mouthfuls of the dry crust hastily, drinking off the milk at one draught.

"I say; haven't you a drop more?"

"I'm keeping it for Harry. He hasn't taken a scrap of food all day. I can't make him. Seems like as if his stomach turned against it. He's ill, Roger."

She spoke plaintively.

"Oh, he'll be all right in a few days," said Stevens. Nevertheless, his eyes went uneasily to the small figure on Martha's knee. "It's the cold."

"Yes; cold and starvation. He's dying of the strike."

"Dying! Rubbish and nonsense!" Roger spoke angrily. "No more dying than you nor me. He wants feeding up a bit. The strike's just at an end, and he'll be all right then."

"Will he? Children don't get back strength so easy, once it's run down," said Martha. "How do you know the strike's at an end?"

"Some sort of proposals has come from the masters—I've not heard particulars. Meeting us half-way, I'm told."

"And it's going to be settled?"

"There's a meeting. We're going to consider the question," said Stevens. "Some don't want to give in till we get the whole. It's only a half rise that's talked of. I don't know if we'll accept the offer, or if we'll wait a while longer."

"And meantime—what are we to do?" asked Martha. "There's nothing to eat. What are we to do? Roger, don't be persuaded," she implored. "Do take the right side; and don't you mind what others say. If the masters give way one half, surely the men can give way the other half. It's like children if they don't—holding out because they've said they will. Don't you listen to what others say—Pope least of all. It's nothing to him—he, with all his comforts. And just look at us. It's life and death to the children."

"A man must do as others do," came in answer.

"I don't see the 'must.' Mr. Holdfast don't; and I'm sure he's as much of a man as any of you. I wouldn't be so easy led, if I was a man, that I wouldn't!" declared Martha passionately. "As if folks' talk was more to you than the wants of your own little ones."

Stevens walked off, banging the door behind him; and the noise brought another moan from Harry. Martha sat watching him, tears running down her cheeks.

"Maybe he'd like me to sing to him," said Millie. "Would he, mother?"

"Try," was the reply.

And Millie's thin but sweet child-voice rose softly in one of the hymns she had learnt at the Church Sunday-school, Bobbie's uncertain tones joining in now and then.

"I love to hear the story, Which angel voices tell, How once the King of Glory Came down on earth to dwell;"

"I am both weak and sinful, But this I surely know, The Lord came down to save me, Because He loved me so."

Millie came to a pause.

"I've forgot the next verse," she said. "Mother, Harry likes me to sing. He's got his eyes open. Harry likes hymns about Jesus and the angels, don't he?"

Martha only said "Go on," in a choked voice.

And Millie started the last verse, Bobbie still following her lead.

"To sing His love and mercy, My sweetest songs I'll raise, And though I cannot see Him, I know He hears my praise: For He has kindly promised That even I may go To sing among His angels, Because He loves me so."

Baby Harry lay quite still. There was no response of look or word, as in earlier and brighter days. The blue eyes were shut, and the small face was white—how white Martha could not see in the dim light, though she could feel how heavily he lay on her arm. She resolved anew that on Monday, if he were not better, he must see the doctor.

But no Monday would ever dawn for little Harry. He was slipping quietly away from the hard and bitter strifes of men, with all their sorrowful consequences, away to the Land of peace where love alone has sway; where want can never enter; where hunger and thirst are unknown. He who had "kindly promised" a Home among the angels, was even now drawing baby Harry out of the mother's clasp into His own strong and gentle Arms, "because He loved him so."

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