 Chapter 15 Of Violent Meeting between the Rivals A thoughtful heart can look into this gulf that darkly yawns, twixt, rich and poor, and not find food for saddest meditation can see without a pang of keenest grief, then fiercely battling like some natural foes who God had made with help and sympathy to stand as brothers side by side united, where is the wisdom that shall bridge this gulf and bind them once again in trust and love? Love Truths We must return to John Barton, poor John. He never got over his disappointing journey to London, the deep mortification he then experienced, with perhaps as little selfishness for its cause as mortification ever had, was of no temporary nature, indeed few of his feelings were. Then came a long period of bodily privation of daily hunger after food, and though he tried to persuade himself he could bear want himself with social indifference, and did care about it as little as most men, yet the body took its revenge for its uneasy feelings. The mind became soured and morose, and lost much of its equipped poise. It was no longer elastic as in the days of youth, or in times of comparative happiness it ceased to hope, and it is hard to live on when one can no longer hope. The same state of feeling which John Barton entertained, if belonging to one who had leisure to think of such things, and physicians to give names to them, would have been called monomania, so haunting, so incessant, were the thoughts that pressed upon him. I have somewhere read a forcibly described punishment among the Italians, worthy of a bordia. Whether supposed or real criminal was shut up in a room, supplied with every convenience and luxury, and at first mourned little over his imprisonment, but day by day he became aware that the space between the walls of his apartment was narrowing, and then he understood the end. Those painted walls would come into hideous nearness, and at last crushed the light out of him. And so day by day, nearer and nearer, came the diseased thoughts of John Barton. They excluded the light of heaven, the cheering sounds of earth, they were preparing his death. It is true much of their morbid power might be excrued to the use of opium. But before you blame too harshly this use, or rather abuse, try a hopeless life, with daily cravings of the body for food. Try not alone being without hope yourself, but seeing all around you reduced to the same despair arising from the same circumstances, all around you telling, though they use no words or language by their looks and feeble actions, that they are suffering and sinking under the pressure of want. Would you not be glad to forget life and its burdens? And opium gives forgetfulness for a time. It is true they who thus purchased it pay dearly for their oblivion, but can you expect the uneducated to count the cost of their whistle? Poor riches, they pay a heavy price, days of oppressive weariness and langua, whose realities have the feeble cycliness of dreams, nights, whose dreams are fierce realities of agony, paining health, tottering frames, incipient madness, and worse, the consciousness of incipient madness. This is the price of their whistle, but have you taught them the science of consequences? John Barton's overpowering thought, which was to work out his fate on earth, was rich and poor. Why are they so separate, so distinct, when God has made them all? It is not his will that their interests are so far apart, whose doing is it? And so on into the problems and mysteries of life, until bewildered and lost, unhappy and suffering, the only feeling that remained clear and undisturbed in the tumult of his heart was hatred to the one class, and keen sympathy with the other. But what availed his sympathy? No education had given him wisdom, and without wisdom even love, with all its effects, too often works but harm. He acted to the best of his judgment, but it was a widely earing judgment. The actions of the uneducated seem to be typified in those of Frankenstein, that monster of many human qualities, ungifted with a soul, a knowledge of the difference between good and evil. The people rise up to life, they irritate us, they terrify us, and we become their enemies. Then in the sorrowful moment of our triumphant power their eyes gaze on us with mute reproach. Why have we made them what they are, a powerful monster, yet without the inner means for peace and happiness? John Barton became a Chartist, a Communist, all that is commonly called wild and visionary. Aye, but being visionary is something. It shows a soul, a being not altogether sensual, a creature who looks forward for others, if not for himself, and with all his weakness he had a sort of practical power, which made him useful to the bodies of men to whom he belonged. He had a ready kind of rough, blankishy eloquence, a rising out of the fullness of his heart, which was very stirring to men similarly circumcised, who liked to hear their feelings put into words. He had a pretty clear head at times for method and arrangement, a necessary talent to large combinations of men. And what perhaps more than all made him relied upon and valued was the consciousness which every one who came in contact with him felt, that he was actuated by no selfish motives, that his class, his order, was what he stood by, not the rights of his own paltry self. For even in great and noble men, as soon as self comes into prominent existence, it becomes a mean and paltry thing. A little time before this, there had come one of those occasions for deliberation among the employed, which deeply interested John Barton, and the discussions concerning which had caused his frequent absence from home ablate. I am not sure if I can express myself in the technical terms of either masters or workmen, but I will try simply to state the case on which the latter deliberated. When all of the coarse goods came in from a new foreign market, it was a large order, giving employment to all the mills engaged in that species of manufacture, that it was necessary to execute its feederly, and at as low prices as possible, as the masters had reason to believe that a duplicate order had been sent to one of the continental manufacturing towns, where there were no restrictions on food, no taxes on building or machinery, and where consequently they dreaded that the goods could be made at a much lower price than they could afford them for, and that, by so acting and charging, the rival manufacturers would obtain undivided possession of the market. It was clearly their interest to buy cotton as cheaply, and to beat down wages as low as possible, and in the long run the interests of the workmen would have been thereby benefited. Distrust each other as they may, the employers and the employed must rise or fall together. There may be some difference as to chronology, none as to fact, but the masters did not choose to make all these circumstances known. They stood upon being the masters, and that they had a right to order work at their own prices, and they believed that in the present depression of trade and unemployment of hands, there would be no great difficulty in getting it done. Now let us turn to the workmen's view of the question, the masters of the tottering foundation of whose prosperity they were ignorant, seemed doing well, and, like gentlemen, lived at home in ease, while they were starving, gasping on from day to day, and there was a foreign order to be executed, the extent of which, large as it was, was greatly exaggerated, and it was to be done speedily. Why were the masters offering such low wages under these circumstances? Shame upon them. It was taking advantage of their work people being almost starved, but they would starve entirely rather than come into such terms. It was bad enough to be poor, while by the labour at their thin hands, the sweat at their brows, the masters were made rich, but they would not be utterly ground down to dust. No, they would fold their hands and sit idle, and smile at the masters, whom even in death they could baffle. With spartan endurance they determined to let the employers know their power, by refusing to work. So class distrusted class, and their want of mutual confidence, wrought sorrow to both. The masters would not be bullied, and compelled to reveal why they felt it wisest and best to offer only such low wages. They would not be made to tell that they were even sacrificing capital to obtain a decisive victory over the continental manufacturers. And the workmen sat silent and stern, with folded hands, refusing to work for such pay. There was a strike in Manchester. Of course it was succeeded by the usual consequences. Many other trades, unions, connected with different branches of business, supported with money, countenance, and encouragement of every kind. The stand which the Manchester power loom weavers were making against their masters. Delegates from Glasgow, from Nottingham, and other towns, were sent to Manchester to keep up the spirit of resistance. A committee was formed, and all the requisite officers elected, chairman, treasurer, honorary secretary. Among them was John Barton. The masters, meanwhile, took their measure. They placarded the walls with advertisements for power loom weavers. The workmen replied by placard in still larger letters, stating their grievances. The masters met daily in town, to mourn over the time, so fast flipping away, for the fulfilment of the foreign orders, and to strengthen each other in their resolution, not to yield. If they gave up now, they might give up always. It would never do. And amongst the most energetic of the masters, the castans, father and son, took their places. It is well known that there is no religious so zealous as a convert, no masters so stern, and regardless of the interests of their work people, as those who have risen from such a station themselves. This would account for their elder mystic arson's determination not to be bullied into yielding, not even to be bullied into giving reasons for acting, as the masters did. It was the employer's will, and that should be enough for the employed. Harry Carson did not trouble himself much about the grounds for his conduct. He liked the excitement of the affair. He liked the attitude of resistance. He was brave, and he liked the idea of personal danger, with which some of the more cautious tried to intimidate the violent among the masters. Meanwhile, the powerloom weavers living in the more remote parts of Lancashire, and the neighbouring counties, heard of the masters' advertisements for workmen, and in their solitary dwellings grew weary of starvation, and resolved to come to Manchester. Foot sore, way worn, half starved, looking men may wear, as they tried to steal into town in the early dawn, before people were astir, or in the dusk of the evening, and now begun the real wrongdoing at the trade's unions, as to their decision to work, or not, as such a particular rate of wages. That was either wise or unwise, all era of judgment at the worst, but they had no right to tyrannize over others, and tie them down to their own procrasting bed. Abhorring what they considered oppression in the masters, why did they oppress others? Because, when men get excited, they know not what they do. Judge, then, with something of the mercy of the Holy One, whom we all love. In spite of policemen set to watch over the safety of the poor country weavers, in spite of magistrates, and prisons, and severe punishments, the poor depressed men cramping in from Burnley, Penneham, and other places, to work at the condemned, starvation prices were waylaid and beaten, and left by the roadside almost for dead. The police broke up every lounging knot of men, they separated quietly, to reunite half a mile out of town. Of course, the feeling between the masters and the workmen did not improve under these circumstances. Combination is an awful power. It is like the equally mighty agency of steam, capable of almost unlimited good or evil. But to obtain a blessing on its labours, it must work under the direction of a high and intelligent will, incapable of being misled by passion or excitement. The will of the operatives had not been guided to the calmness of wisdom. So much for generalities. Let us now return to individuals. A note respectfully worded, although its tone of determination was strong, had been sent by the power-loom weavers, requesting that a deputation of them might have a meeting with the masters, to state the conditions they must have fulfilled before they would end the turnout. They thought they had attained a sufficiently commanding position to dictate. John Barton was appointed one of the deputation. The masters agreed to this meeting, being anxious to end the strife, although undetermined among themselves how far they should yield, or whether they should yield at all. Some of the old, whose experience had taught them sympathy, were for concession. Others, white-headed men too, had only learned hardness and obstinacy from the days of the years of their lives, and sneered at the more gentle and yielding. The younger men were one and all, for an unflinching resistance to claims, urged with so much violence. At this party Harry Carlson was the leader. But like all energetic people, the more he had to do, the more time he seemed to find. With all his letter-writing, his calling, his being present at the New Bailey, when investigations of any case of violence against knobsticks were going on, he beset Mary more than ever. She was weary of her life for him. From blandishments he had even gone to threats, threats that whether she would or not she should be his. He showed an indifference that was most insulting to everything, which might attract attention and injure her character. Knobsticks, those who consent to work at lower wages. And still she never saw Jim. She knew he had returned home. She heard of him occasionally through his cousin, who roved gaily from house to house, finding and making friends everywhere. But she never saw him. What was she to think? Had he given her up? Were a few hasty words spoken in a moment of irritation to stamp her lot through life? At times she thought that she could bear this meekly, happy in her own constant power of loving. For a change or a forgetfulness she did not dream. Then at other times her state of impatience was such that it required all herself restraint to prevent her from going and seeking him out. And as man would do to man or woman to woman, begging him to forgive her hasty words and allow her to retract them and bidding him except at the love that was filling her whole heart. She wished Margaret had not advised her against such a manner of proceeding. She believed it was her friend's words that seemed to make such a simple action impossible, in spite of all the internal urgings. But a friend's advice is only thus powerful, when it puts into language the secret oracle of our souls. It was the whisperings of her womanly nature that caused her to shrink from any unmaidenly action, not Margaret's counsel. All this time, this ten days or so, of Will's visit to Manchester, there was something going on which interested Mary even now, and which, in former times, would have exceedingly amused and excited her. She saw as clearly as if told in words that the merry, random boisterous sailor had fallen deeply in love with the quiet, prim, somewhat plain Margaret. She doubted if Margaret was aware of it, and yet, as she watched more closely, she began to think some instinct made the blind girl feel whose eyes were so often fixed upon her pale face, that some inner feeling made the delicate and becoming rose flush steel over her countenance. She did not speak so decidedly as before. There was a hesitation in her manner that seemed to make her very attractive, as if something softer, more lovable than excellent sense, were coming in as a motive for speech. Her eyes had always been soft, and were in no ways disfigured by her blindness, and now seemed to have a new charm, as they quivered under their white, downcast lids. She must be conscious, thought Mary, heart answering to heart. Will's love had no blushings, no downcast eyes, no weighing of words. It was as open and undisguised as his nature, yet he seemed afraid of the answer its acknowledgement might meet with. It was Margaret's angelic voice that had entranced him, and which made him think of her as a being of some other sphere, that he feared to womb. So he tried to prohibitiate job in all manner of ways. He went over to Liverpool to rummage in his great-sea chest for the flying fish. No very odorous present, by the way. He hesitated over a child's call for some time, which was, in his eyes, a far greater treasure than any XXO tests. What use could it be of two alansmen? Then Margaret's voice rung in his ears, and he determined to sacrifice it, his most precious possession to one whom she loved as she did her grandfather. It was rather a relief to him, when, having put it and the flying fish together in a brown paper parcel, and sat upon them for security all the way in the railroad, he found that job was so indifferent to the precious call, that he might easily claim it again. He hung about Margaret, till he had received many warnings and reproaches from his conscience, in behalf of his dear Aunt Alice's claims upon his time. He went away, then he befought him of some other little word with job. And he turned back and stood talking once more in Margaret's presence, door in hand, only waiting for some little speech of encouragement to come in and sit down again. But as the invitation was not given, he was forced to leave at last, and go and do his duty. Four days had Jim Wilson watched for Mr Harry Carson, without success. His hours of going and returning to his home were so irregular, owing to the meetings and consultations among the masters, which were rendered necessary by the turnout. On the fifth, without any purpose, on Jim's part, they met. It was the workman's dinner hour, the interval between twelve and one, when the streets of Manchester are comparatively quiet, for a few shopping ladies and lounging gentlemen count for nothing in that busy, bustling living place. Jim had been on an errand for his master, instead of returning to his dinner and in passing along a lane, a road called in complement to the intentions of some future builder and street. He encountered Harry Carson, the only person as far as he saw beside himself, treading the unfrequented path. Along one side ran a high broad fence, blackened over by cold tar, and spiked and stuck with pointed nails at the top, to prevent anyone from climbing over into the garden beyond. By this fence was the footpath. The carriage road was such as no carriage, no, not even a cart could possibly have passed along without hercules to assist in lifting it out of the deep clay ruts. On the other side of the way was a dead brick wall and a field after that, where there was a saw pit and joiner's shed. Jim's heart beat violently when he saw the gay, a handsome young man approaching, with a light boy and step. This then was he whom Mary loved. It was perhaps no wonder, for he seemed to the poor Smith so elegant, so well appointed, that he felt the superiority in externals, strangely and painfully for an instant. Then something up rose within him and told him that a man's a man for a that, for a that, and twice as much as a that, and he no longer felt troubled by the outward appearance of his rival. Harry Carson came on, lightly bounding over the dirty places with almost a lad's buoyancy. To his surprise the dark, sturdy-looking artisan stopped him by saying respectfully, May I speak a word with you, sir? Certainly my good man, looking his astonishment, then finding that the promised speech did not come very quickly, he added, but make haste, for I'm in a hurry. Jim had cast about for some less abrupt way approaching the subject uppermost in his mind than he now found himself obliged to use. With a husky voice that trembled as he spoke, he said, I think, sir, you're keeping company with a young woman called Mary Barton. A light broke in upon Henry Carson's mind, and he paused before he gave the answer for which the other waited. Could this man be a lover of Mary's? And strange, stinging thought, could he be beloved by her, and so have caused her obstinate rejection of himself? He looked at Jim from head to foot, a black, grimy mechanic in dirty, fusty and clothes, strongly built and awkward according to the dancing master. Then he glanced at himself and recalled the reflection he had so lately quitted in his bedroom. It was impossible no woman with eyes could choose the one when the other would. It was hyperion to a satyr. That quotation came aptly, he forgot, that a man's a man for a that. And yet there was a clue which he had often wanted to her change conduct towards him, if she loved this man, if he hated the fellow and longed to strike him. He would know all. Mary Barton, let me see. Ah, that is the name of the girl. An aren't flirt the little house he is, but very pretty. Ah, Mary Barton is her name. Jim bit his lips. Was it then so that Mary was a flirt, the giddy creature of whom he spoke? He would not believe it, and yet how he wished the suggestive words unspoken. That thought must keep now though. Even if she were, the more reason for there being someone to protect her, poor faulty darling. She's a good girl, sir, though maybe a bit set up with her beauty, but she's her father's only child, sir. And he stopped. He did not like to express suspicion, and yet he was determined he would be certain there was ground for none. What should he say? Well, my fine fellow, and what have I to do with that? It's but loss of my time and yours too. If you've only stopped me to tell me Mary Barton is very pretty, I know that well enough. He seemed as though he would have gone on, but Jim put his black working right hand upon his arm to detain him. The haughty young man shook it off, and with his glove pretended to brush away the silty contamination that might be left upon his light-grave coat sleep. The little action aroused Jim. I will tell you in plain words what I have got to say to you, young man. It's been told me by one as knows, and has seen, that you walk with this same Mary Barton, and are known to be courting her, and her has spoke to me about it, thinks as how Mary loves you. That may be or may not. But I'm an old friend of hers and her father's, and I just wish to know if you mean to marry the girl. Despite of what you said of her lightness, I had known her long enough to be sure she'll make a noble wife for anyone. Let him be what he may, and I mean to stand by her like a brother, and if you mean rightly, you'll not think the worst on me for what I've now said. And if, but no, I'll not say what I'll do to the man who wrongs a hair of her head. He shall rue to the longest day he lives. That's all. Now, sir, what I ask of you is this. If you mean fair and honourable by her, well and good. But if not, for your own sake as well as hers, leave her alone, and never speak to her more. Gem's voice quivered with the earnestness with which he spoke, and he eagerly waited for some answer. Harry Carson, meanwhile, instead of attending very particularly to the purpose the man had in addressing him, was trying to gather from his speech what was the real state of the case. He succeeded so far as to comprehend that Gem inclined to believe that Mary loved his rival, and consequently that if the speaker were attached to her himself, he was not a favoured admirer. The idea came into Mr. Carson's mind that perhaps, after all, Mary loved him in spite of her frequent and obstinate rejections, and that she had employed this person, whoever he was, to believe him into marrying her. He resolved to try and ascertain more correctly the man's relation to her. Either he was the lover, and if so, not a favoured one, in which case Mr. Carson could not at all understand the man's motives for interesting himself in securing her marriage. Or he was a friend, and an accomplice whom she had employed to believe him, so little faith in goodness have the mean and selfish. Before I make you into my confident, my good man, said Mr. Carson, in a contemptuous tone, I think it might be as well to inquire your right to meddle with our affairs. Neither Mary nor I, as I conceive, called you in as a mediator. He paused. He wanted a distinct answer to the last supposition. None came. So he began to imagine he was to be threatened into some engagement, and his angry spirit rose. And so, my fine fellow, you will have the kindness to leave us to ourselves, and not to meddle with what does not concern you. If you were a brother or a father of hers, the case might have been different. As it is, I can only consider you an impertinent meddler. Again he would have passed on, but Jim stood in a determined way before him saying, You say, if I had been her brother or her father, you'd have answered me what I ask. Now, neither father nor brother could love her as I have loved her. I, and as I love her still. If love gives a right to satisfaction, it's next to impossible. Anyone breathing can come up to my right. Now, sir, tell me, do you mean fair by Mary or not? I've proved my claim to know, and by gee, I will know. Come, come, no impudence, replied Mr Carson, who, having discovered what he wanted to know, namely, that Jim was a lover of Mary's, and that she was not encouraging his suit, wish to pass on, father, brother, or rejected lover, with an emphasis on the word rejected. No one has a right to interfere between my little girl and me, not one shell. Confound you, man, get out of my way, or I'll make you. As Jim still obstructed his path with dog determination. I won't, then, to you give me your word about Mary, replied the mechanic, grinding his words out between his teeth, and the livid paleness of the anger he could no longer keep down, covering his face, till he looked ghastly. Won't you, with a taunting laugh, then I'll make you. The young man raised his slight cane, and smoked the artisan across the face with a stinging stroke. An instant afterwards he lay stretched in the muddy road, gem-standing over him, panting with rage. What he would have done next in his moment of ungovernable passion, no one knows, but a policeman from the main street into which this road led had been sauntering about for some time, unobserved by the either of the parties, and expecting some kind of conclusion, like the present to the violent discussion, going on between the two young men. In a minute he had pinioned Jim, whose sullenly yielded to the surprise. Mr. Carson was on his feet directly, his face glowing with rage or shame. Shall I take him to the lock-up for assault, sir? said the policeman. No, no, exclaim Mr. Carson. I struck him first. It was no assault on his side, though. He continued, hissing out his words to Jim, who even hated freedom, procured for him. However justly at the intervention of his rival, I will never forgive or forget insult. Trust me, he gasped the words in excess of passion. Mary shall fear no better for your insolent interference. He laughed, as if with the consciousness of power. Jim replied with equal excitement, and if you dare to injure her in the least, I will wait you where no policeman can step in between, and God shall judge between us too. The policeman now interfered with persuasions and warnings. He locked his arm in Jim's to lead him away, in an opposite direction to that, in which he saw Mr. Carson was going. Jim submitted gloomily for a few steps, then wrenched himself free. The policeman shouted after him, Take care, my man, there's no girl on earth with what you'll be bringing on yourself if you don't mind. But Jim was out of hearing. Washington, DC. Mary Barton, by Elizabeth Clegghorn Gaskell. Chapter 16. Meeting Between Masters and Workmen Not for a moment, take this garner's chair, while seated there, donost not a word, atone a look, may gall thy brother's heart, and make him turn in bitterness against thee. Love truths. The day arrived on which the masters were to have an interview with the deputation of the work people. The meeting was to take place in a public room, at a hotel, and there, about eleven o'clock, the mill owners who had received the foreign orders began to collect. Of course, the first subject, however full their minds might be of another, was the weather. Having done their duty by all the showers and sunshine which had occurred during the past week, they fell to talking about the business which had brought them together. There might be about twenty gentlemen in the room, including some by courtesy who were not immediately concerned in the settlement of the present question, but who, nevertheless, were sufficiently interested to attend. These were divided into little groups, who did not seem, by any means, unanimous. Some were for a slight concession, just a sugar plumb to quieten the naughty children, a sacrifice to peace and quietness. Some were steadily and vehemently opposed to the dangerous precedent of yielding one jot, or one tittle, to the outward force of a turnout. It was teaching the work people how to become masters, said they, that they want the wildest thing hereafter. They would know that the way to obtain their wishes would be to strike work, besides one or two of those present had only just returned from the new Bailey, where one of the turnouts had been tried for a cruel assault on a poor North Country weaver, who had attempted to work at the low price. They were indignant, and justly so, at the merciless manner in which the poor fellow had been treated, and their indignation at wrong took, as it often does, the extreme form of revenge. They felt as if, rather than yield to the body of men who were resorting to such cruel measures towards their fellow workmen, they, the masters, would sooner relinquish all the benefits to be derived from the fulfillment of the commission, in order that the workmen might suffer keenly. They forgot that the strike was, in this instance, the consequence of want and need suffered unjustly, as the endureers believed. For, however insane and without ground of reason, such was their belief, and such was the cause of their violence. It is a great truth that you cannot extinguish violence by violence. You may put it down for a time, but while you are crowing over your imaginary success, see as it does not return with seven devils worse than its former self. No one thought of treating the workmen as brethren and friends, and openly, clearly, as appealing to reasonable men, stating exactly and fully the circumstances, which led the masters to think it was the wise policy of the time to make sacrifices themselves and to hope for them from the operatives. In going from group to group in the room, you caught such a medley of sentences as the following. Poor devils, they're near enough to starving, I'm afraid. Mrs. Aldrich makes two cows' heads into soup every week, and people come many miles to fetch it, and if these times last, we must try and to do more. But we must not be bullied into anything. A rise of a shilling or so won't make much difference, and they will go away thinking they've gained their point. And that's the very thing I object to. They'll think so, and whenever they've got a point to gain, no matter how unreasonable, they'll strike work. It really interests them more than us. I don't see how our interests can be separated. The damned brute had thrown vitriol on the poor fellow's ankles, and you know what a bad part that is to heal. He had to stand still with the pain, and that left him at the mercy of the cruel wretch who beat him about the head till you'd hardly have known he was a man. They doubt if he'll live. If it were only for that, I'll stand out against them, even if it is the cause of my ruin. I, I for one, won't yield one farthing to the cruel brutes. They're more like wild beasts than human beings. Well, who might have made them different? I say, Carson, just go and tell Duncombe of this fresh instance of their abominable conduct. He's wavering, but I think this will decide him. The door was now opened, and the waiter announced that the men were below, and asked if it were the pleasure of the gentleman that they should be shown up. They assented, and rapidly took their places round the official table, looking as like they could to the Roman senators who awaited the eruption of Brenus and his galls. Tramp, tramp, came the heavy clogged feet up the stairs, and in a minute five wild, earnest-looking men stood in the room. John Barton, from some mistake as to time, was not among them. Had they been larger-boned men, you would have called them gaunt. As it was, they were a little of stature, and their fustion clothes hung loosely about their shrunk limbs. In choosing their delegates to, the operatives had had more regard to their brains and power of speech than to their wardrobes. They might have read the opinions of that worthy professor, Trufelsstreck, in Sartre Rosartus, to judge from the dilapidated coats and trousers, which he yet closed men of parts and of power. It was long since many of them had known the luxury of a new article of dress, and air gaps were to be seen in their garments. Some of the masters were rather affronted at such a ragged detachment coming between the wind and their nobility, but what cared they? At the request of a gentleman hastily chosen to officiate as chairman, the leader of the delegates read, in a high-pitched, psalms-singing voice, a paper containing the operative statement of the case at issue, their complaints, and their demands, which, last, were not remarkable for moderation. He was then desired to withdraw for a few minutes with his fellow delegates to another room, while the masters considered what should be their definite answer. When the men had left the room, a whispered earnest consultation took place, everyone re-erging his former arguments. The conceders carried the day, but only by a majority of one. The minority haughtily and audibly expressed their dissent from the measures to be adopted. Even after the delegates re-entered the room, their words and looks did not pass unheeded by the quick-eyed operatives. Their names were registered in bitter hearts. The masters would not consent to the advance demanded by the workmen. They would agree to give one shilling per week more than they had previously offered, where the delegates empowered to accept such an offer. They were empowered to accept or decline any offer made that day by the masters. Then it might be as well for them to consult among themselves as to what should be their decision they again withdrew. It was not for long. They came back, and positively declined any compromise of their demands. Then up sprang Mr. Henry Carson, the head and voice of the violent party among the masters, and addressing the chairman even before the scowling operatives. He proposed some resolutions which he and those who agreed with him had been concocting during this last absence of the deputation. They were, firstly, withdrawing the proposal just made and declaring all communication between the masters and that particular trades union at an end. Secondly, declaring that no master would employ any workmen in future unless he signed a declaration that he did not belong to any trades union and pledged himself not to assist or subscribe to any society having for its object interference with the masters powers. And thirdly, that the masters should pledge themselves to protect and encourage all workmen willing to accept employment on those conditions and at the rate of wages first offered. Considering that the men who now stood listening with lowered brows of defiance were all of them leading members of the union, which resolutions were in themselves sufficiently provocative of animosity, but not content with simply stating them. Harry Carson went on to characterize the conduct of the workmen in no measured terms. Every word he spoke rendering their looks more livid, their glaring eyes more fierce, one among them would have spoken but checked himself in obedience to the stern glance and pressure on his arm received from the leader. Mr. Carson sat down and a friend instantly got up to second the motion. It was carried, but far from unanimously. The chairman announced it to the delegates who had been once more turned out of the room for a division. They received it with deep brooding silence, but spake never a word, and left the room without even a bow. Now, there had been some by play at this meeting not recorded in the Manchester newspapers, which gave an account of the more regular part of the transaction. While the men had stood grouped near the door on their first entrance, Mr. Harry Carson had taken out his silver pencil and had drawn an admirable caricature of them, lank, bragged, dispirited, and salmon-stricken. Underneath he wrote a hasty quotation from the fat knight's well-known speech in Henry IV. He passed it to one of his neighbors, who acknowledged the likeness instantly, and by him it was sent round to others, who all smiled and nodded their heads. And when it came back to its owner, he tore the back of the letter on which it was drawn in two, twisted them up, and flung them into the fireplace. But, careless whether they reached their aim or not, he did not look to see that they fell just short of any consuming cinders. This proceeding was closely observed by one of the men. He watched the masters that they left the hotel, laughing some of them were, at passing jokes. And when all had gone, he re-entered. He went to the waiter who recognized him. There was a bit on a picture up yonder, as one of the gentlemen threw away. I would little lad his home as dearly love the picture, by your leave I'll go up for it. The waiter, good-natured and sympathetic, accompanied him upstairs, saw the paper, picked it up, and untwisted. And then, being convinced, by a hasty glance at its contents, that it was only what the man had called it, or bit of a picture, he allowed him to bear away his prize. Towards seven o'clock that evening, many operatives began to assemble in a room in the Weaver's Arms Public House, a room appropriated for a festive occasion, as the landlord in his circular, on opening the premises, had described it but alas. It was on no festive occasion that they met there this night. Starved, irritated, despairing men, they were assembled to hear the answer, that morning given by the masters to their delegates, after which, as was stated in the notice, a gentleman from London would have the honor of addressing the meeting on the present state of affairs between the employers and the employed, or, as he chose to turn them, the idle and the industrious classes. The room was not large, but its bareness of furniture made it appear so. The unshaded gas flared down on the lean and unwashed artisans as they entered, their eyes blinking in the excess of light. They took their seats on benches and awaited the deputation. The latter gloomily and ferociously delivered the master's ultimatum, adding there too not one word of their own, and it sank all the deeper into the sore hearts of the listeners for their forbearance. Then the gentleman from London, who had been previously informed of the master's decision, entered. You would have been puzzled to define his exact position. Or what was the state of his mind as regarded education? He looked so self-conscious, so far from earnest, among the group of eager, fierce, absorbed men whom he now stood. He might have been a disgraced medical student in the Bob Sawyer class, or an unsuccessful actor or a flashy shopman. The impression he would have given you would have been unfavorable, and yet there was much about him that could only be characterized as doubtful. He smirked in acknowledgment of their uncouth greetings, and sat down. Then glancing around, he inquired whether it would not be agreeable to the gentleman present to have pipes and liquor handed round, adding that he would stand treat. As the man who has had his taste educated to love reading falls devouringly upon books after long absence. So these poor fellows, whose tastes had been left to educate themselves into a liking for tobacco beer of similar gratifications, gleamed up with the proposal of the London Delegate. And tobacco and drink deadened the pangs of hunger, and make, one forget, the miserable home, the desolate future. They were now ready to listen to him with approbation. He felt it, and rising like a great orator with his right arm outstretched, his left in the breast of his waistcoat, he began to declaim, with a forced theatrical voice. After a burst of eloquence, in which he blended the deeds of the elder and the younger Brutus, and magnified the resistless might of the millions of Manchester, the Londoner descended to matter-of-fact business, and in his capacity this way he did not belie the good judgment of those who had sent him as a delegate. Masses of people, when left to their own free choice, seemed to have discretion in distinguishing men of natural talent. It is a pity that so little regard, temper, and principles. He rapidly dictated resolutions and suggested measures. He wrote out a stirring placard for the walls. He proposed sending delegates to entreat the assistance of other trades unions in other towns. He headed the list of subscribing unions by a liberal donation, from that with which he was especially connected in London. And what was more and more common, he pained down the money in real, clinking, blinking, golden sovereigns. The money alas, was cravingly required. But before alleviating any private necessities on the morrow, small sums were handed to each of the delegates who were in a day or two to set out on their expeditions to Glasgow, Newcastle, Nottingham, etc. These men were most of the members of the deputation who had that morning waited upon the masters. After he had drawn up some letters and spoken a few more stirring words, the gentleman from London withdrew, previously shaking hands all around, and many speedily following him out of the room and out of the house. The newly appointed delegates and one or two others remained behind to talk over their respective missions, and to give in exchange opinions in more homely natural language than they dared to use before the London Orator. He's a rare chap, young, began one, indicating the departed delegate by a jerk of his thumb towards the door. He's getting the gift of a gab anyhow. Aye, aye, he knows what he's about. See how he poured it into us about that there, Brutus. He were pretty hard, too, to kill his own son. I could kill mine if he took part with the masters to be sure. He's but a stepson, but that makes no odds, said another. But now tongues were hushed, and all eyes were directed toward the member of the deputation who had that morning returned to the hotel to obtain possession of Harry Carson's clever caricature of the operatives. The heads clustered together to gaze at it and detect the likenesses. That's John Slater. I didn't own him anywhere by his big nose. Lord hell-like! That's me! It's the very way I'm obligated to pin my waistcoat up to hide that I've gotten no shirt. That is a shame, and I'll not stand it. Well, said John Slater, after having acknowledged his nose and his likeness, I could laugh at the jest as well as air the best on him, though I did tell again myself if I were not all clemen. His eyes filled with tears. He was a poor, pinched, sharp-featured man, with a gentle and melancholy expression of countenance. And if I could keep from thinking of them at home, as is clemen, but with their cries for food ringing in my ears and making me a fear to go on home, and wonder if I should hear them wailing out, if I lay cold and drowned at the bottom of the canal, why there, why, man, I cannot laugh it out. It seems to make me sad that there is any as can make game on what they have never known, as can make such laughable pictures on men whose very hearts within them are so raw and sore as ours were and are. God help us! John Barton began to speak. They turned to him with great attention. It makes me more sad. It makes my heart burn within me. To see that fault can make a jest of striving men, of chaps who come to ask for a bit of fire for the old granny, as shivers in the cold, for a bit of bedding, and some more in clothing, to the poor wife who lies in labour on the damp flags, and for vitals for the children whose little voices are getting too faint and weak to cry aloud with hunger, for brothers is it not them the things we ask for when we ask for more wages. We do not want daintings. We want bellyfuls. We do not want gym-crack coats and waistcoats. We want warm clothes, and so that we get them. We do not quarrel with what they are made on. We do not want their grand houses. We want a roof to cover us from the rain and the snow and the storm. I am not alone to cover us, but the helpless ones that cling to us in the keen wind and ask us with their eyes why we brought them into the world to suffer. He lowered his deep voice to almost a whisper. I have seen a father who had killed his child rather than let it clem before his eyes, and he were a tender art of man. He began again in his usual tone. We come to the masters with full hearts to ask for them things are named for. We know that they have gotten money, as we have earned for them. We know trade is mending, and they have large orders for which they will be well paid. We ask for our share of the payment, for, say we, if the masters get our share of payment, it will only go to keep servants and horses to more dress and pomp, well and good. If you choose to be fools, we will not hinder you, so long as you are just, but our share we must and will have. We will not be cheated. We want it for our daily bread, for life itself, and not for our own lives neither, for there is many a one here I know by myself, as would be glad and thankful to lie down and die out of this weary world, but for the lives of them little ones who don't yet know what life is and are a fear to death. Well, we come before the masters to state what we want and what we must have before we'll set shoulder to their work, and they say no. One would think that would be enough of hard-heartedness, but it isn't. They go and make jesting pictures on us. I could laugh at Miss Salas, well as poor John Slater there, but then I must be easy in my mind to laugh. Now I only know that I would give the last drop of my blood to a vengeance on Yon Chap, who had so little feeling in him as to make game on earnest, suffering men. A low, angry murmur was heard among the men, but it did not yet take form or words. John continued, You'll wonder, Chaps, how I come to miss the time this morning. I'll just tell you what I was doing. The chaplain at the New Bailey sent and gave me an order to see Jonas Higginbotham. His was taken up last week for throwing vitriol in an obstic's face. Well, I couldn't help but go, and I didn't reckon it would have kept me so late. Jonas were like one crazy when I got to him. He said he couldn't get rest night or day for the face the poor fellow he damaged. Then he thought on his weak, cleansed look as he trumped foot sore into town, and Jonas thought maybe he'd left them at home as would look for news and hope and get none but happily tidings of his death. Well, Jonas had thought on these things till he could not rest, but walked up and down continually, like a wild beast in his cage. At last he bethought him on a way to help a bit, and he got the chaplain to send for me, and he told me this, and that the man reliant in the infirmary, and who bade me go, today's the day his folk may be admitted to the infirmary, and get his silver watch, as was his mother's, and sell it as well as I could, and take the money, and bid the poor nobstick send it to his friends, beyond Burnley, and I were to take him, Jonas's kind regards, and he humbly asked him to forgive him. So I did what Jonas wished, but bless your life, none of us would ever throw vitriol again, at least at a nobstick. If they could see the fire I saw today, the man laying, his face all wrapped in cloth, so I didn't see that, not a limb, nor bit of a limb, could keep him quivering with pain. He would have bitten his hand to keep down his moans, but couldn't. His face hurt him so if he moved it airs a little, he could scarce mind me when I tell them about Jonas. He did squeeze my hand when I jingled the money, but when I asked his wife name, he shrieked out, Mary, Mary, shall I never see you again? Mary, my darling, they've made me blind, because I wanted to work for you and our own baby. Oh, Mary, Mary! Then the nurse came and said he were raving, and that I had made him worse, and I feared it was true, and I were lost to go without knowing where to send the money, so that kept me beyond my timechaps. Did you hear where the wife lived at last? asked many anxious voices. No, he went on talking to her till his words cut my heart like a knife. I asked the nurse to find out who she was and where she lived, but what I'm more special naming it now for is this, for one thing, I wanted you all to know why I weren't on my post this morning, for another I wish to say that I, for one, have seen enough of what comes of attacking nobsticks, and I'll have no to do with it no more. There were some expressions of disapprobation, but John did not line them. Nay, I'm no coward, he replied, and I'm true to the backbone. What I would like, and what I would do, would be to fight the masters. There's one among you called me a coward. Well, every man has a right to his opinion, but since I've thought on the matter today, I thought we had all of us been more like cowards in attacking the poor like ourselves. Them has none to help, but one chews between vitriol and starvation. I say we're more cowardly in doing that than in leaving them alone. No, what I would do is this, have at the masters. Again he shouted, have at the masters. He spoke lower, all listened, with hushed breath. It's all the masters. Has this wrought this woe? It's the masters that should pay for it. Him has called me coward just now, may try if I am one or not. Set me to serve out the masters, and see if there's out a stick. It would give the masters a bit on a fry if one of them were beaten within an inch of his life, said one. I were beaten till no life were left in it growled another. And so with words, or looks that told more than words, they built up the deadly plan. Deeper and darker grew the import of their speeches, as they stood hoarsely muttering their meaning out, and glaring with eyes that told the terror in their own thoughts were to them upon their neighbors. Their clenched fists, their set teeth, their livid looks, all told the suffering which their minds were voluntarily undergoing in the contemplation of crime, and in familiarizing themselves with its details. Then came one of those fierce, terrible oaths, which bind numbers of trades unions to any given purpose. Then, under the flaring gaslight, they met together to consult further. With the distrust of guilt, each was suspicious of his neighbor. Each dreaded the treachery of another, a number of pieces of paper, the identical letter on which the character had been drawn that very morning were torn up and one was marked, and all were folded up again looking exactly alike. They were shuffled together in a hat, but gas was extinguished, each drew out a paper. The gas was relighted, and each went as far as he could from his fellows and examined the paper he had drawn without saying a word, and with a countenance as stony and immovable as he could make it. Then, still rigidly silent, they each took up their hats, and went every one his own way. He who had drawn the marked paper had drawn the lot of the assassin, and he had sworn to act according to his drawing, but no one, say of God, in his own countenance knew who was the appointed murderer. End of Chapter 16. Recording by Anna Daly, Washington D.C. Chapter 17 of Mary Barton. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Glenda Kindred. Mary Barton by Elizabeth Clegghorn Gaskell. Chapter 17 Barton's Night Arendt. Mournful is to say farewell, though for few brief hours we part. In that absence, who can tell what may come to ring the heart? Anonymous. The events recorded in the last chapter took place on a Tuesday. On Thursday afternoon, Mary was surprised in the midst of some little bustle in which she was engaged, by the entrance of Will Wilson. He looked strange. At least it was strange to see any different expression on his face to his usual joyous beaming appearance. He had a paper parcel in his hand. He came in and sat down, more quietly than usual. Why, Will, what's the matter with you? You seem quite cut up about something. And I am, Mary. I'm come to say goodbye, and few folk like to say goodbye to them they love. Goodbye. Bless me, Will, that's sudden, isn't it? Mary left off ironing, and came and stood near the fireplace. She had always liked Will. But now it seemed as if a sudden spring of sisterly love had gushed up in her heart. So sorry did she feel to hear of his approaching departure. It's very sudden, isn't it? Said she, repeating the question. Yes, it's very sudden, said he dreamily. No, no it isn't. Rousing himself to think of what he was saying. The captain told me in a fortnight he would be ready to sail again. But it comes very sudden on me. I had got so fond of you all. Mary understood the particular fondness that was thus generalized. She spoke again. But it's not a fortnight since you came. Not a fortnight since you knocked at Jane Wilson's door. And I was there, you remember? Nothing like a fortnight. No, I know it's not. But you see, I got a letter this afternoon from Jack Harris to tell me our ship sails on Tuesday next. And it's long since I promised my uncle, my mother's brother, him that lives at Kirk Christ beyond Ramsey in the Isle of Man, that I'd go and see him and his this time of coming ashore. I must go. I'm sorry enough, but I mustn't slight poor mother's friends. I must go. Don't try to keep me, said he, evidently fearing the strength of his own resolution if hard-pressed by entreaty. I'm not a going-will. I dare say you're right. Only I can't help feeling sorry you're going away. It seems so flat to be left behind. When do you go? No. Tonight I shan't see you again. Tonight, and you go to Liverpool. Maybe you and father will go together. He's going to Glasgow, by way of Liverpool. No, I'm walking, and I don't think your father will be up to walking. Well, and why on earth are you walking? You can get by railway for three and sixpence. I, but Mary, thou mustn't let out what I'm going to tell thee. I haven't got three shillings. No, nor even a sixpence left, at least not here. Before I came I gave my landlady enough to carry me to the island and back, and maybe a trifle for presents, and I brought the rest here. And it's all gone but this, jingling a few coppers in his hand. Nay, never fret over my walking a matter of thirty mile, added he, as he saw she looked grave and sorry. It's a fine clear night, and I shall set off be times, and get in for the Manx packet sales. Where's your father going? To Glasgow, did you say? Perhaps he and I may have a bit of a trip together then, for if the Manx boat has sailed when I get into Liverpool, I shall go buy a Scotch packet. What's he going to do in Glasgow? Seek for work? Trade is as bad there as here, folks say. No, he knows that, answered Mary sadly. I sometimes think he'll never get work again, and that trade will never mend. It's very hard to keep up one's heart. I wish I were a boy. I'd go to sea with you. It would be getting away from bad news at any rate, and now there's hardly a creature that crosses the doorstep, but has something sad and unhappy to tell one. Father is going as a delegate from his union, to ask help from the Glasgow folk. He's starting this evening. Mary sighed, for the feeling again came over her, that it was very flat to be left alone. You say no one crosses the threshold, but has something sad to say. You don't mean that Margaret Jennings has any trouble, asked the young sailor anxiously? No, replied Mary, smiling a little. She's the only one I know, I believe, who seems free from care. Her blindness almost appears a blessing sometimes. She was so downhearted when she dreaded it, and now she seems so calm and happy when it's downright come. No, Margaret's happy, I do think. I could almost wish it had been otherwise, said Will thoughtfully. I could have been so glad to comfort her and cherish her, if she had been in trouble. And why can't you cherish her, even though she is happy, asked Mary. Oh, I don't know. She seems so much better than I am. And her voice, when I hear it, and think of the wishes that are in my heart, it seems as much out of place to ask her to be my wife, as it would be to ask an angel from heaven. Mary could not help laughing outright, in spite of her depression, at the idea of Margaret as an angel. It was so difficult, even to her dress-making imagination, to fancy wear and how the wings would be fastened to the brown-stuff gown, or the blue and yellow print. Will laughed, too, a little, out of sympathy with Mary's pretty Mary laugh. Then he said, I, you may laugh, Mary. It only shows you've never been in love. In an instant Mary was carnation-colour, and the tears sprang to her soft grey eyes. She that was suffering so much from the doubts arising from love. It was unkind of him. He did not notice her change of look and of complexion. He only noticed that she was silent, so he continued. I thought, I think, that when I come back from this voyage I will speak. It's my fourth voyage in the same ship, and with the same captain, and he's promised he'll make me a second maid after this trip. Then I shall have something to offer Margaret, and her grandfather, and Aunt Alice shall live with her, and keep her from being lonesome while I'm at sea. I'm speaking as if she cared for me and would marry me. Do you think she does care at all for me, Mary? Asked he anxiously. Mary had a very decided opinion of her own on the subject, but she did not feel as if she had any right to give it. So she said, You must ask Margaret, not me, Will. She's never named your name to me. His countenance fell. But I should say that was a good sign from a girl like her. I've no right to say what I think, but if I was you, I would not leave her now without speaking. No, I cannot speak, I have tried. I've been intoish them goodbye, and my voice stuck in my throat. I could say not of what I'd planned to say, and I never thought of being so bold as to offer her marriage till I'd been my next trip and been made mate. I could not even offer her this box, said he, undoing his paper parcel, and displaying a godly ornamented accordion. I longed to buy her something, and I thought if it were something in the music line, she would maybe fancy it more. So will you give it to her, Mary, when I'm gone? And if you can slip in something tender, something, you know, of what I feel, maybe she would listen to you, Mary. Mary promised that she would do all that he asked. I shall be thinking on her, many and many a night, when I'm keeping my watch in mid-sea. I wonder if she will ever think on me when the wind is whistling, and the gale rising. You'll often speak of me to her, Mary, and if I should meet with any mischance, tell her how dear, how very dear she was to me, and bid her, for the sake of one who loved her well, try and comfort my poor Aunt Alice. Dear old Aunt, you and Margaret will often go and see her, won't you? She sadly failed since I was last ashore, and so good as she has been. When I lived with her, a little wee chap, I used to be awakened by the neighbors knocking her up. This one was ill, and that body's child was restless, and for as tired as ever she might be, she would be up and dressed in a twinkling, never thinking of the hard day's wash or for her next morning. Them were happy times. How pleased I used to be when she would take me into the field with her to gather herbs. I've tasted tea in China since then, but it wasn't half so good as the herb tea she used to make for me a Sunday night's, and she knew such a deal about plants and birds, and their ways. She used to tell me long stories about her childhood, and we used to plan how we would go some time, please God, that was always her word, and live near her old home beyond Lancaster, in the very cottage where she was born if we could get it. Dear, and how different it is, here is she still in a back street of Manchester, never likely to see her own home again, and I, a sailor, off for America next week. I wish she had been able to go to Burton once before she died. She would maybe have found all sadly changed, said Mary, though her heart echoed Will's feeling. I, I dare here say it's best. One thing I do wish, though, and I have often wished it went out alone on the deep sea, when even the most thoughtless can't choose but think on the past and the future, and that is that I'd never grieved her. Oh, Mary, many a hasty word comes sorely back on the heart when one thinks when she'll never see the person whom one has grieved again. They both stood thinking. Suddenly Mary started. That's Father's step, and his shirt's not ready. She hurried to her irons and tried to make up for lost time. John Barton came in, such a haggard and wildly anxious looking man Will thought he had never seen. He looked at Will, but spoke no word of greeting or welcome. I'm come to bid you goodbye, said the sailor, and would, in his sociable friendly humour, have gone on speaking, but John answered abruptly. Good-bye to you, then. There was that in his manner which left no doubt of his desire to get rid of the visitor, and Will, accordingly, shook hands with Mary and looked at John, as if doubting how far to offer to shake hands with him. But he met with no answer in glance or gesture, so he went his way, stopping for an instant at the door to say, You'll think on me on Tuesday, Mary. That's the day we shall hoist our blue Peter, Jack Harris says. Mary was heartily sorry when the door closed. It seemed like shutting out a friendly son meme. And her Father! What could be the matter with him? He was so restless. Not speaking. She wished he would, but starting up and then sitting down and meddling with her irons, he seemed so fierce, too, to judge from his face. She wondered if he disliked Will being there, or if he were vexed to find that she had not got further on with her work. At last she could bear his nervous way no longer. It made her equally nervous and fidgety. She would speak. When are you going, Father? I don't know the time of the trains. And why should Stown know, replied he gruffly, meddle with thy ironing, but done it be asking questions about what doesn't concern thee. I wanted to get you something to eat first, answered she gently. Thou dost not know that I'm learning to do without food, said he. Mary looked at him to see if he spoke justingly. No, he looked savagely grave. She finished her bit of ironing, and began preparing the food she was sure her Father needed. For by this time her experience in the degrees of hunger had taught her that his present irritability was increased, if not caused by want of food. He had had a sovereign given to him to pay his expenses as delegate to Glasgow, and out of this he had given Mary a few shillings in the morning, so she had been able to buy a sufficient meal, and now her care was to cook it so as to tempt him. If thou art doing that for me, Mary, thou mayst spare thy labour. I tell thee I were not for eating. Just a little bit, Father, before starting, coaxed Mary perseveringly. At that instant, who should come in but Job Lee? It was not often he came, but when he did pay visits, Mary knew from past experience they were anything but short. Her Father's countenance fell back into the deep gloom from which it was but just emerging at the sound of Mary's sweet voice, and pretty pleading. He became again restless and fidgety, scarcely giving Job Lee the greeting necessary for a host in his own house. Job, however, did not stand upon ceremony. He had come to pay a visit, and was not to be daunted from his purpose. He was interested in John Barton's mission to Glasgow, and wanted to hear all about it, so he sat down and made himself comfortable in a manner that Mary saw was meant to be stationary. So, off to Glasgow-art, though, he began his catechism. I went art-starting. Tonight, that I know, but by what train? That was just what Mary wanted to know, but what apparently her Father was in no mood to tell. He got up without speaking, and went upstairs. Mary knew from his step, and his way, how much he was put out, and feared Job would see it too. But no, Job seemed imperturbable, so much the better, and perhaps she could cover her Father's rudeness by her own civility to so kind a friend. So, half listening to her Father's movements upstairs, passionate, violent, restless motions they were, and half attending to Job Lee, she tried to pay him all due regard. When does thy Father start, Mary? That plaguing question again. Oh, very soon. I'm just getting him a bit of supper. Is Margaret very well? Yes, she's well enough. She's meaning to go and keep Alice Wilson company for an hour or so this evening. As soon as she thinks her nephew will have started for Liverpool. For she fancies the old woman will feel a bit lonesome. The Union is paying for your Father, I suppose. Yes, they've given him a sovereign. You're one of the Union, Job? I? I'm one sure enough. But I'm a sleeping partner in the concern. I were obliged to become a member for peace, else I don't go along with them. You see, they think themselves wise and me silly for differing with them. Well, there's no harm in that. But then they won't let me be silly in peace and quietness, but will force me to be as wise as they are. Now, that's not British liberty, I say. I'm forced to be wise according to their notions, else they persecute me and starve me out. What could her father be doing upstairs, tramping and banging about? Why did he not come down? Or why did not Job go? The supper would be spoiled. But Job had no notion of going. You see, my folly is this, Mary. I would take what I could get. I think half a loaf is better than no bread. I would work for low wages rather than sit idle and starve. But comes the trade union and says, well, if you take the half loaf, we'll worry you out of your life. Will you be clement or will you be worried? Now, clementing is a quiet death, and worrying isn't. So I choose clementing and come into the union. But I'd wish they'd leave me free if I am a fool. Creek, Creek went the stairs. Her father was coming down at last. Yes, he came down, but more doggedly fierce than before, and made up for his journey, too, with his little bundle on his arm. He went up to Job, and more civilly than Mary expected, wished him good-bye. He then turned to her, and in a short, cold manner, bade her farewell. Oh, Father, don't go yet. Your supper is all ready. Stay one moment. But he pushed her away and was gone. She followed him to the door, her eyes blinded by sudden tears. She stood there, looking after him. He was so strange, so cold, so hard. Suddenly, at the end of the court, he turned, and saw her standing there. He came back quickly and took her in his arms. God bless thee, Mary. God in heaven bless thee, poor child. She threw her arms round his neck. Don't go yet, Father. I can't bear you to go yet. Come in, and eat some supper. You look so ghastly. Dear Father, do— No, he said, faintly and mournfully. It's best as it is. I couldn't eat, and it's best to be off. I cannot be still at home. I must be moving. So, saying, he unlaced her soft, twining arms, and kissing her once more, set off on his fierce errand. And he was out of sight. She did not know why, but she had never before felt so depressed, so desolate. She turned into Job, who sat there still. Her father, as soon as he was out of sight, slackened his pace, and fell into that heavy, listless step which told, as well as words could do, of hopelessness and weakness. It was getting dark, but he loitered on, returning no greeting to any one. A child's cry caught his ear. His thoughts were running on little tome, on the dead and buried child of happier years. He followed the sound of the wail that might have been his, and found a poor little mortal who had lost his way, and whose grief had choked up his thoughts to the single want. Mammy, mammy! With tender address John Barton soothed the little laddie, and with beautiful patience he gathered fragments of meaning from the half-spoken words which came mingled with sobs from the terrified little heart. So, aided by inquiries here and there from a passerby, he led and carried the little fellow home, where his mother had been too busy to miss him, but now received him with thankfulness and with an eloquent Irish blessing. When John heard the words of blessing, he shook his head mournfully, and turned away to retrace his steps. Let us leave him. Mary took her sewing after he had gone and sat on, and sat on, trying to listen to Job, who was more inclined to talk than usual. She had conquered her feeling of impatience towards him so far as to be able to offer him her father's rejected supper. And she even tried to eat herself, but her heart failed her. A leaden weight seemed to hang over her, a sort of presentiment of evil, or perhaps only an excess of low-spirited feeling in consequence of the two departures which had taken place that afternoon. She wondered how long Job Lee would sit. She did not like putting down her work and crying before him, and yet she had never in her life longed so much to be alone in order to indulge in a good hearty burst of tears. Well, Mary, she suddenly caught him saying, I thought you'd be a bit lonely tonight, and as Margaret were going to cheer the old woman, I said I'd go and keep the young in company, and a very pleasant chatty evening we've had. Very. Only I wonder as Margaret has not come back. But perhaps she is suggested, Mary. No, no, I took care of that. Looky here, and he pulled out the great house key. She'll have to stand waiting in the street, and that I'm sure she wouldn't do when she knew where to find me. Will she come back by herself? asked Mary. I, at first, I were afraid of trusting her, and I used to follow her a bit behind, never letting on, of course. But bless you, she goes along as steadily as can be, rather slow to be sure, and her head a bit on one side, as if she were listening. And it's real beautiful to see her cross the road. She'll wait above a bit to hear that all is still. Not that she's so dark as not to see a coach or a cart, like a big black thing, but she can't rightly judge how far off it is by sight. So she listens. Hark! That's her. Yes, in she came, with her usually calm face, all tear-stained and sorrow-marked. What's the matter, my wench? said Job hastily. Oh, grandfather, Alice Wilson's so bad. She could say no more for her breathless agitation. The afternoon, and the parting with Will, had weakened her nerves for any aftershock. What is it? Do tell us, Margaret, said Mary, placing her in a chair and loosening her bonnet strings. I think it's a stroke, or the palsy. At any rate, she has lost the use of one side. Was it a four, Will said off, asked Mary. No, he were gone before I got there, said Margaret, and she were much about as well as she had been for many a day. She spoke a bit, but not much, but that were only natural, for Mrs. Wilson likes to have the talk to her cell, you know. She got up to go across the room, and then I heard a drag with your leg, and presently a fall, and Mrs. Wilson came running and set up such a cry. I stopped with Alice while she fetched a doctor, but she could not speak to answer me, though she tried, I think. Where was Jim? Why didn't he go for the doctor? He were out when I got there, and he never came home while I stopped. Thou's never left Mrs. Wilson alone, we poor Alice, asked Joe pastily. No, no, said Margaret, but, oh, grandfather, it's now I feel how hard it is to have lost my sight. I should have so loved to nurse her, and I did try, until I found I did more harm than good. Oh, grandfather, if I could but see! She sobbed a little, and they let her give that ease to her heart. Then she went on. No, I went round by Mrs. Davenport's, and she were hard at work, but the minute I told my errand, she were ready and willing to go to Jane Wilson and stop up all night with Alice. And what does the doctor say, asked Mary. Oh, much what all doctors say, he puts offence on this side and offence on that, for fear he should be caught tripping in his judgment. One moment he does not think there's much hope, but while there is life there is hope. The next he says he should think she might recover partial, but her age is a gainer. He's ordered her leeches to her head. Margaret, having told her tale, leant back with weariness, both of body and mind. Mary hastened to make her a cup of tea, while Job, lately so talkative, sat quiet and mournfully silent. I'll go first thing to-morrow morning and learn how she is, and I'll bring word back before I go to work, said Mary. It's a bad job, Will's gone, said Job. Jane does not think she knows anyone, replied Margaret. It's perhaps as well he shouldn't see her now, for they say her face is sadly drawn. He'll remember her with her own face better, if he does not see her again. With a few more sorrowful remarks they separated for the night, and Mary was left alone in her house, to meditate on the heavy day that had passed over her head. Everything seemed going wrong. Will gone, her father gone, and so strangely too, and to a place so mysteriously distant as Glasgow seemed to be to her. She had felt his presence as a protection against Harry Carson and his threats, and now she dreaded lest he should learn she was alone. Her heart began to despair, too, about Jem. She feared he had ceased to love her, and she, she only loved him more and more for his seeming neglect. And, as if all this aggregate of sorrowful thoughts was not enough, here was this new woe of poor Alice's paralytic stroke. I must go back now to an hour or two before Mary and her friends parted for the night. It might be about eight o'clock that evening, and the three Miss Carson's were sitting in their father's drawing-room. He was asleep in the dining-room in his own comfortable chair. Mrs. Carson was, as was usual with her, when no particular excitement was going on, very poorly, and sitting upstairs in her dressing-room, indulging in the luxury of a headache. She was not well, certainly. Wind in the head, the servants called it. But it was but the natural consequence of the state of mental and bodily idleness in which she was placed. Without education enough to value the resources of wealth and leisure, she was so circumstance as to command both. It would have done her more good than all the aether and salvolatil she was daily in the habit of swallowing, if she might have taken the work of one of her own housemates for a week, made beds, rubbed tables, shaken carpets, and gone out into the fresh morning air, without all the paraphernalia of shawl, cloak, boa, fur boots, bonnet, and veil, in which she was equipped before setting out for an airing, in the closely shut-up carriage. So the three girls were by themselves in the comfortable, elegant, well-lighted drawing-room, and like many similarly-situated young ladies, they did not exactly know what to do to while away the time until the tea-hour. The elder two had been at a dancing-party the night before, and were listless and sleepy in consequence. One tried to read Emerson's essays and fell asleep in the attempt, the other was turning over a parcel of new songs in order to select what she liked. Amy, the youngest, was copying some manuscript music. The air was heavy with the fragrance of strongly scented flowers, which sent out their night odors from an adjoining conservatory. The clock on the chimney-piece chimed eight. Sophie, the sleeping sister, started up at the sound. What a clock is that? she asked. Eight, said Amy. Oh, dear, how tired I am! Is Harry come in? Tea will rouse one up a little. Are you not worn out, Helen? Yes, I'm tired enough. One is good for nothing the day after a dance. Yet I don't feel weary at the time. I suppose it is the lateness of the hours. And yet how could it be managed otherwise? So many don't die until five or six that one cannot begin before eight or nine, and then it takes a long time to get into the spirit of the evening. It is always more pleasant after supper than before. Well, I'm too tired to night to reform the world in the manner of dances or balls. What are you copying, Amy? Only that little Spanish air you sing. Cuen que era. What are you copying it for? asked Helen. Harry asked me to do it for him this morning at breakfast time, for Miss Richardson, he said. For Jane Richardson, said Sophie, as if a new idea were receiving strength in her mind. Do you think Harry means anything by his attentions to her? asked Helen. Nay, I do not know anything more than you do. I can only observe in conjecture. What do you think, Helen? Harry always likes to be of consequence to the bell of the room. If one girl is more admired than another, he likes to flutter about her and seem to be on intimate terms with her. That is his way, and I have not noticed anything beyond that in his manner to Jane Richardson. But I don't think she knows it's only his way. Just watch her the next time we meet her when Harry is there, and see how she crimsens and looks another way when she feels he is coming up to her. I think he sees it too, and I think he is pleased with it. I daresay Harry would like well enough to turn the head of such a lovely girl as Jane Richardson, but I'm not convinced that he's in love whatever she may be. Well then, said Sophie indignantly, though it is our own brother, I do not think he is behaving very wrongly. The more I think of it, the more I am sure she thinks he means something, and that he intends her to think so. And then when he leaves off paying her attention, which will be as soon as a prettier girl makes her appearance, interrupted Helen, as soon as he leaves off paying her attention, resumed Sophie, she will have many and many a heartache, and then she will harden herself into being a flirt, a feminine flirt, as he is a masculine flirt. Poor girl. I don't like to hear you speak so of Harry, said Amy, looking up at Sophie. And I don't like to have to speak so, Amy, for I love him dearly. He is a good kind brother, but I do think him vain, and I think he hardly knows the misery, the crime, to which indulged vanity may lead him. Helen yawned. Oh, do you think we may ring for Tea? Sleeping after dinner makes me so feverish. Yes, surely. Why should not we? said the more energetic Sophie, pulling the bell with some determination. Tea directly, Parker, she said authoritatively as the man entered the room. She was too little in the habit of reading the expressions on the faces of others to notice Parker's countenance. Yet it was striking. It was blanched to a dead whiteness, the lips compressed as if to keep within some tale of horror, the eyes distended and unnatural. It was a terror-stricken face. The girls began to put away their music and books, in preparation for Tea. The door slowly opened again, and this time it was the nurse who entered. I call her nurse, for such had been her office in bygone days, though now she held rather an anomalous situation in the family. Seemstress, attendant on the young ladies, keeper of the stores, only nurse was still her name. She had lived longer with them than any other servant, and to her their manner was far less haughty than to the other domestics. She occasionally came into the drawing-room to look for things belonging to their father or mother, so it did not excite any surprise when she advanced into the room. They went on arranging their various articles of employment. She wanted them to look up. She wanted them to read something in her face, her face so full of woe, of horror, but they went on without taking any notice. She coughed, not a natural cough, but one of those coughs was asked so plainly for a remark. Dear nurse, what is the matter? asked Amy. Are you not well? Is Mama ill? asked Sophie quickly. Speak, speak, nurse! said they all, as they saw her efforts to articulate choked by the convulsive rising in her throat. They clustered around her with eager faces, catching a glimpse of some terrible truth to be revealed. My dear young ladies, my dear girls! she gasped out at length, and then she burst into tears. Oh, do tell us what it is! said one. Anything is better than this. Speak! My children, I don't know how to break it to you. My dears, poor Mr. Harry's brought home. Brought home? Brought home? How? Instinctively they sank their voices to a whisper, but a fearful whisper it was. In the same low tone, as if afraid, lest the walls, the furniture, the inanimate things which told of preparation for life and comfort should hear, she answered, Dead. Amy clutched her nurse's arm and fixed her eyes on her as if to know if such a tale could be true, and when she read its confirmation in those sad, mournful, unflinching eyes, she sank, without word or sound, down in a faint upon the floor. One sister sat down on an ottoman and covered her face to try and realize it. That was Sophie. Helen threw herself on the sofa and, burying her head in the pillows, tried to stifle the screams and moans which shook her frame. The nurse stood silent. She had not told all. Tell me, said Sophie, looking up and speaking in a horse voice, which told of the inward pain. Tell me, nurse, is he dead, did you say? Have you sent for a doctor? Oh, send for one, send for one! continued she, her voice rising to shrillness, and starting to her feet. Helen lifted herself up and looked with breathless waiting toward the nurse. My dears, he is dead, but I have sent for a doctor. I've done all I could. When did he—when did they bring him home? asked Sophie. Perhaps ten minutes ago, before you rang for Parker. How did he die? Where did they find him? He looked so well. He always seemed so strong. Oh, are you sure he is dead? She went towards the door. Nurse laid her hand on her arm. Miss Sophie, I have not told you all. Can you bear to hear it? Remember, Master is in the next room and he knows nothing yet. Come, you must help me to tell him. Now, be quiet, dear. It was no common death he died. She looked in her face as if trying to convey her meaning by her eyes. Sophie's lips moved, but nurse could hear no sound. He has been shot as he was coming home along Turner Street to-night. Sophie went on with the motion of her lips, twitching them almost convulsively. My dear, you must rouse yourself and remember your father and mother have yet to be told. Speak, Miss Sophie! But she could not. Her whole face worked involuntarily. The nurse left the room and almost immediately brought back some salvoletil and water. Sophie drank it eagerly and gave one or two deep gasps. Then she spoke in a calm, unnatural voice. What do you want me to do, nurse? Go to Helen and poor Amy. See, they want help. Poor creatures! We must let them alone for a bit. You must go to Master. That's what I want you to do, Miss Sophie. You must break it to him. Poor gentleman! Come, he's asleep in the dining-room and the men are waiting to speak to him. Sophie went mechanically to the dining-room door. Oh, I cannot go in. I cannot tell him. What must I say? I'll come with you, Miss Sophie. Break it to him by degrees. I can't, nurse. My head throbs so I shall be sure to say the wrong thing. However, she opened the door. There sat her father, the shaded light of the candle-lamp falling upon and softening his marked features, while his snowy hair contrasted well with the deep crimson Morocco of the chair. The newspaper he had been reading had dropped on the carpet by his side. He breathed regularly and deeply. At that instant the words of Mrs. Heman's song came full in Sophie's mind. You know not what you do that call the slumberer back from the realms unseen by you to life's dim, weary track. But this life's track would be to the bereaved father something more than dim and weary hereafter. Papa, she said softly, he did not stir. Papa, she exclaimed, somewhat louder. He started up half-away. Tea is ready, is it? And he yawned. No, Papa, but something very dreadful, very sad has happened. He was gaping so loud that he did not catch the words she uttered and did not see the expression of her face. Master Henry has not come back, said nurse. Her voice heard in unusual speech to him, arrested his attention, and rubbing his eyes he looked at the servant. Harry, oh no, he had to attend a meeting of the masters about those cursed turnouts. I don't expect him yet. What are you looking at me so strangely for, Sophie? Oh, Papa, Harry is come back, said she, bursting into tears. What do you mean? said he, startled into an impatient consciousness that something was wrong. One of you says he has not come home, and the other says he is. Now, that's nonsense. Tell me at once what's the matter. Did he go on horseback to town? Is he thrown? Speak, child, can't you? No, he's not been thrown, Papa, said Sophie, sadly. But he's badly hurt, put in the nurse, desirous to be drawing his anxiety to a point. Hurt? Where? How? Have you sent for a doctor? said he, hastily rising as if to leave the room. Yes, Papa, we've sent for a doctor, but I'm afraid I believe it's of no use. He looked at her for a moment, and in her face he read the truth. His son, his only son, was dead. He sank back in his chair and hid his face in his hands and bowed his head upon the table. The strong mahogany dining table shook and rattled under his agony. Sophie went and put her hands around his bowed neck. Go! You are not hairy! said he, but the action roused him. Where is he? Where is he? said he, with his strong face set into the lines of anguish by two minutes of such intense woe. In the servant's hall, said nurse, two policemen and another man brought him home. They would be glad to speak to you when you are able, sir. I am now able, replied he, at first when he stood up he tottered, but steadying himself he walked as firmly as a soldier on drill to the door. Then he turned back and poured out a glass of wine from the decanter which yet remained on the table. His eye caught the wine glass which Harry had used but two or three hours before. He sighed along, quivering sigh, and then mastering himself again left the room. You had better go back to your sisters, Miss Sophie, said nurse. Miss Carson went. She could not face death yet. The nurse followed Mr. Carson to the servant's hall. There, on their dinner-table, lay the poor dead body. The men who had brought it were sitting near the fire while several of the servants stood around the table gazing at the remains. The remains! One or two were crying, one or two were whispering, odd into a strange stillness of voice and action by the presence of the dead. When Mr. Carson came in they all drew back and looked at him with the reverence due to sorrow. He went forward and gazed long and fondly on the calm, dead face. Then he bent down and kissed the lips yet crimson with life. The policeman had advanced and stood ready to be questioned. But at first the old man's mind could only take in the idea of death. Slowly, slowly came the conception of violence, of murder. How did he die? He groaned forth. The policeman looked at each other. Then one began and stated that, having heard the report of a gun in Turner Street, he had turned down that way, a lonely, unfrequited way Mr. Carson knew, but a shortcut to his garden door, of which Harry had a key, that as he, the policeman, came nearer he had heard footsteps as of a man running away, but the evening was so dark, the moon not having yet risen, that he could see no one twenty yards off. That he had even been startled when close to the body by seeing it lying across the path at his feet. That he had sprung his rattle, and when another policeman came up by the light of the lantern, they had discovered who it was that had been killed. That they believed him to be dead when they first took him up, as he had never moved, spoken, or breathed. That intelligence of the murder had been sent to the superintendent, who would probably soon be here. That two or three policemen were still about the place where the murder was committed, seeking out for some trace of the murderer. Having said this, they stopped speaking. Mr. Carson had listened attentively, never taking his eyes off the dead body. When they had ended he said, Where was he shot? They lifted up some of the thick chestnut curls and showed a blue spot. You could hardly call it a hole, the flesh had closed so much over it, in the left temple, a deadly aim, and yet it was so dark a night. He must have been close upon him, said one policeman, and have had him between him and the sky, added the other. There was a little commotion at the door of the room, and there stood poor Mrs. Carson, the mother. She had heard unusual noises in the house, and had sent down her maid, much more a companion to her than her highly educated daughters, to discover what was going on. But the maid either forgot or dreaded to return, and with nervous impatience Mrs. Carson came down herself, and had traced the hum and buzz of voices to the servant's hall. Mr. Carson turned round, but he could not leave the dead for anyone leaving. Take her away, nurse, it is no sight for her. Tell Miss Sophie to go to her mother. His eyes were again fixed on the dead face of his son. Presently Mrs. Carson's hysterical cries were heard all over the house. Her husband shuddered at the outward expression of the agony which was renting his heart. Then the police superintendent came, and after him the doctor. The latter went through all the forms of ascertaining death, without uttering a word, and went at the conclusion of the operation of opening a vein, from which no blood flowed, he shook his head, all present understood the confirmation of their previous belief. The superintendent asked to speak to Mr. Carson in private. It was just what I was going to request of you, answered he, so he led the way into the dining-room, with the wine-glass still on the table. The door was carefully shut, and both sat down, each apparently waiting for the other to begin. At last Mr. Carson spoke. You probably have heard that I am a rich man. The superintendent bowed in ascent. Well, sir, half. Nay, if necessary, the whole of my fortune I will give to have the murderer brought to the gallows. Every exertion, you may be sure, sir, shall be used on our part, but probably offering a handsome reward might accelerate the discovery of the murderer. But what I wanted particularly to tell you, sir, is that one of my men has already got some clue, and that another, who accompanied me here, has within this quarter of an hour found a gun in the field which the murderer crossed, and which he probably threw away when pursued, as encumbering his flight. I have not the smallest doubt of discovering the murderer. What do you call a handsome reward? said Mr. Carson. Well, sir, three or five hundred pounds is a magnificent reward, more than will probably be required as a temptation to any accomplice. Make it a thousand, said Mr. Carson decisively. It's the doing of those damn turn-outs. I imagine not, said the superintendent. Some days ago the man I was naming to you before reported to the inspector when he came on his beat that he had to separate your son from a young man, who by his dress he believed to be employed in a foundry, that the man had thrown Mr. Carson down and seemed inclined to proceed to more violence when the policeman came up and interfered. Indeed, my man wished to give him in charge for an assault, but Mr. Carson would not allow that to be done. Just like him, noble fellow, murmured the father. But after your son had left the man made use of some pretty strong threats, and it's rather a curious coincidence that this scuffle took place in the very same spot where the murder was committed in Turner Street. There was someone knocking at the door of the room. It was Sophie, who beckoned her father out, and then asked him, in an awestruck whisper, to come upstairs and speak to her mother. She will not leave Harry and talk so strangely. Indeed, indeed, papa, I think she has lost her senses. And the poor girl sobbed bitterly. Where is she? asked Mr. Carson. In his room. They went upstairs rapidly and silently. It was a large, comfortable bedroom, too large to be well lighted by the flaring, flickering kitchen-candle which had been hastily snatched up, and now stood on the dressing-table. On the bed, surrounded by its heavy, pall-like green curtains, lay the dead son. They had carried him up and had laid him down as tenderly as though they feared to awaken him, and indeed it looked more like sleep than death, so very calm and full over pose was the face. You saw, too, the chiseled beauty of the features much more perfectly than when the brilliant colouring of life had distracted your attention. There was a peace about him which told that death had come too instantaneously to give any previous pain. In a chair at the head of the bed sat the mother, smiling. She held one of the hands, rapidly stiffening even in her warm grasp, and gently stroked the back of it, with the endearing caress she had used to all her children when young. I'm glad you are come, said she, looking up at her husband and still smiling. Harry is so full of fun, he always has something new to amuse us with. And now he pretends he is asleep, and that we can't awaken him. Look! He is smiling now. He hears I have found him out. Look! And in truth the lips, in the rest of death, did look as though they were a smile, and the waving light of the unsnuffed candle almost made them seem to move. Look, Amy! said she to her youngest child, who knelted her feet, trying to soothe her by kissing her garments. Oh! He was always such a rogue. You remember, don't you, love? How full of play he was as a baby, hiding his face under my arm, when you wanted to play with him. Always a rogue, Harry. We must get her away, sir, said Nurse. You know there is much to be done before. I understand, Nurse, said the father, hastily interrupting her in dread of the distinct words which would tell of the changes of mortality. Come, love, said he to his wife. I want you to come with me. I want to speak to you downstairs. I'm coming, said she, rising. Perhaps after all, Nurse, he's really tired and would be glad to sleep. Don't let him get cold, though. He feels rather chilly," continued she, after she had bent down and kissed the pale lips. Her husband put his arm around her waist, and they left the room. Then the three sisters burst into unrestrained wailings. They were startled into the reality of life and death, and yet in the midst of shrieks and moans, of shivering and chattering of teeth, Sophie's eye caught the calm beauty of the dead, so calm amidst such violence, and she hussed her emotion. Come, said she to her sisters, Nurse wants us to go, and besides we ought to be with Mama. Papa told the man he was talking to when I went for him to wait, and she must not be left. Meanwhile, the superintendent had taken a candle and was examining the engravings that hung around the dining-room. It was so common to him to be acquainted with crime that he was far from feeling all his interest absorbed in the present case of violence, although he could not help having much anxiety to detect the murderer. He was busy looking at the only oil painting in the room, a youth of eighteen or so in a fancy dress, and conjecturing its identity with the young man so mysteriously dead, when the door opened and Mr. Carson returned. Stern as he had looked before leaving the room, he looked far sterner now. His face was hardened into deep, purposed wroth. I beg your pardon, sir, for leaving you, the superintendent bowed. They sat down and spoke long together. One by one the policemen were called in and questioned. All through the night there was a bustle and commotion in the house. Nobody thought of going to bed. It seemed strange to Sophie to hear Nurse summoned from her mother's side to supper in the middle of the night, and still stranger that she could go. The necessity of eating and drinking seemed out of place in the house of death. When night was passing into morning the dining-room door opened and two persons' step were heard along the hall. The superintendent was leaving at last. Mr. Carson stood on the front doorstep, feeling the refreshment of the cooler morning air and seeing the starlight fade away into dawn. You will not forget, said he, I trust you. The policemen bowed. Spare no money. The only purpose for which I now value wealth is to have the murderer arrested and brought to justice. My hope in life now is to see him sentenced to death. Offer any rewards. Name a thousand pounds in the placards. Come to me at any hour, night or day, if that be required. All I ask of you is to get the murderer hanged. Next week, if possible, today is Friday. Surely with the clues you already possessed you can muster up evidence sufficient to have him tried next week. He may easily request an adjournment of his trial on the ground of the shortness of the notice, said the superintendent. Opposite, if possible, I will see that the first lawyers are employed. I shall know no rest while he lives. Everything shall be done, sir. You will arrange with the coroner. Ten o'clock, if convenient. The superintendent took leave. Mr. Carson stood on the step, dreading to shut out the light in air and return into the haunted, gloomy house. My son! My son! he said at last. But you shall be avenged, my poor, murdered boy. I, to avenge his wrongs the murderer had singled out his victim, and with one fell action had taken away the life that God had given. To avenge his child's death the old man lived on, with the single purpose in his heart of vengeance on the murderer. True, his vengeance was sanctioned by law, but was it the less revenge? Are ye worshipers of Christ, or of electo? O, Orestes, ye would have made a very tolerable Christian of the nineteenth century.