The strike was over, the grinders poured into the works, and the grindstones revolved.

Henry Little leaned against an angle of the building, and listened with aching heart to their remorseless thunder.
He stood there disconsolate--the one workman out of work--and sipped the bitter cup, defeat.

Then he walked out at the gates, and wandered languidly into the streets.

He was miserable, and had nobody to mourn to, for the main cause of his grief lay beneath the surface of this defeat; and how could he reveal it, now that his ambitious love looked utter madness?
Young as he was, he had seen there is no sympathy in the world for any man who loves out of his sphere.

Indeed, whatever cures or crushes such a passion, is hailed by the by-standers as a sharp but wholesome medicine.
He sauntered about, and examined all the shops with lack-luster eye.