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.