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“We’ve struck, Em,” he said, smiling down at her from the shadow of his big hat.

“Who’s we?” asked Em gravely.

“All of us. They’re paying a dollar and a quarter over at Briggs’s; we ain’t a-goin’ to stand it.”

Em had stopped in the path. The young fellow stepped behind her, and she went on.

“Why don’t you all go over to Briggs’s and go to work?” she asked, without turning her head.

“Too far–the foreman’ll come to time.”

They came up to the noisy group, and Em seated herself on a pile of trays and loosened the strings of her wide hat; she was tired from her walk, and the pallor of her face made her lips seem redder.

Irene Burnham crossed over to the newcomer, shrugging herself with girlish self-consciousness.

“Isn’t it just too mean, Em?” she panted; “I know they’ll discharge us. That means good-by to my new parasol; I’ve been dying for one all summer, a red silk one”–

“Let up on the parasol racket, Sis,” called one of the Burnham boys; “business is business.”

The hum of the young voices went on, mingled with gay, irresponsible laughter. Em got up and began to tie her hat.

“Where are you going?” asked one of the girls.

“I’m going to work.”

“To work! why, we’ve struck!”

“I haven’t,” said Em soberly. “I’m willing to work for a dollar a day.”

There was a little cry of dismay from the girls; Steve Elliott’s tanned face flushed a coppery red.

“You ain’t goin’ back on us, Em?” he said angrily.

“I ain’t going back on my word,” answered the girl; “you needn’t work if you don’t want to; this is a free country.”

“It isn’t, though,”‘ said Ike Burnham; “the raisin men have a ring–there’s no freedom where there’s rings.”

“I suppose they go into them because they want to,” said Em, setting her lips.

“They go into them because they’d get left if they didn’t.”

“Well, if I was a raisin man,” persisted the girl quietly, “and wanted to go into a ring, I’d do it; but if anybody undertook to boss me into it, they’d have the same kind of a contract on hand that you’ve got.” She turned her back on the little group and started toward the vineyard.

Irene had drifted toward Steve Elliott’s side and was smiling expectantly up into his bronzed face. He broke away from her glance and strode after the retreating figure.

“Em!” The girl turned quickly.

“Oh, Steve!” she cried, with a pleading sob in her voice.

“Em, you’re making a fool of yourself!” he broke out cruelly.

The curve in the red lips straightened.

“Let me alone!” she gasped, putting up her hand to her throat. “If I’m to be made a fool of, I’d rather do it myself. I guess I can stand it, if you’ll let me alone!”

III.

When Bassett’s foreman rode into the vineyard at noon to talk with the strikers, he saw a wide brown hat moving slowly among the vine-rows.

“Who’s that?” he asked, pointing with his whip.

“Em Wickersham,” said one of the group sullenly.

The foreman turned his horse’s head, and galloped down the furrow.

“Miss Wickersham.”

Em straightened herself, and pushed back her hat.

“You don’t want to give up your job?”

The girl shaded her eyes with her hand. There was an unsteady movement of her chin before she spoke.

“I’d like to work till Friday night,” she said.

“Well, I’d like to keep you; but I don’t know how it will be. I won’t stand any of their nonsense,”–he jerked his head toward the camp; “I’m going to send over to Aliso Canon for a wagon-load of pickers. I’m pretty certain I can get them, but they’ll all be men; you might find it a little unpleasant.”

“Who are they?” asked Em.

“Only a lot of ranchers picked up over the neighborhood,” said the foreman. “I think I can find enough men and boys who are through harvesting. I’ll try anyway.”

“Will you be here all the time?” asked the girl.

“All of to-morrow and most of Friday,” he answered, wondering a little.