"I was never there except once, when father had a guest from town. Then mother sent for a carriage, and they took their friend to see the city. Hallam and I rode our burros, but we were very tired when it was over. Even then we passed through the residence streets only."

"Pshaw! It's where the stores are that I like. I always wish I was made of money when I'm in a store. They do have such lovely things."

"Doesn't your mother buy your clothes?"

"My mother? My mother? Well, I guess not. The idea! If a girl earns her own money and pays for all she has, I guess she's a right to pick 'em out. Don't you?"

"Why—yes. I suppose she has a right, if her mother allows. But I should think it would be very trying to select one's own things. I should be so afraid I wouldn't choose correctly, and not please her taste."

"My land! What if you didn't? It's you that has to wear them, isn't it? Have a piece of this gum. It's a new sort. Mis' Hackett keeps it and charges two cents a stick. Other kinds are only one cent, but this is prime."

Gwendolyn was kind-hearted. She was also very vain. She felt that it was a fine thing to be acquainted with "aristocratics" like the Kayes; yet in her heart she was rather ashamed of Amy's plain attire, the simplicity of which seemed to Gwendolyn a proof of Mrs. Kaye's incapacity to "shop"; and its being white—though of soft warm wool—of her want of taste. She supposed, also, that any girl who could, would buy gum, and decided that her new acquaintance must be very poor indeed.

"Take it. I can get plenty more. I earn real good wages now."

"Do you?" asked Amy, so wistfully that the other was confirmed in her opinion of the poverty.

"I should think you would like to work in the mill, wouldn't you? If your folks have lost their money, it would seem real handy to have a little coming in."

"Yes, it would, indeed. But I couldn't do it."

"Why not? You're strong enough, I guess, if you aren't so big."

"Yes, I'm strong and well. But father has forbidden me to think of it."

"Pshaw! He'd come round. If you want to do it, I would; and once you were settled he wouldn't care, or he couldn't help himself, anyway. He's kind of queer, isn't he? I've heard that."

"Queer? Yes; just as queer as a splendid gentleman like him must always seem to common people," flashed the daughter, all the more disturbed because she realized that there had been once, if not now, just a little truth in the suggestion.

"Pshaw! I didn't mean to make you mad. O' course, I hadn't ought to have spoke so about your own father. I s'pose I'd be mad, too, if anybody said things about pa. They do, sometimes, or about ma, their naming us children by fancy names, as they did. You see, they're English, pa and ma are, and so they named us after English aristocratics. Ma's a master hand for reading novels, too, and she gets notions out of them. We take the Four Hundred Story Paper, and the Happy Evening Gazette. Do you take them?"

"No; I never heard of them."

"My land! you didn't? Ain't that queer? Why, they're splendid. They have five serial stories running all the time. As fast as one is finished another is commenced. Umm, they're awful exciting. You can't hardly wait from week to week to get the new instalments. Trouble is, ma says, we'd ought to each of us have a copy, we're so crazy to get hold of it when it comes. Some of the girls take fashion papers, and we lend them 'round. Some lend, I mean. Some are stingy, and won't. They have patterns in them. You can get some of the patterns free, and some cost ten or fifteen cents. Say, how do you like my dress?"

Amy looked critically at her companion's attire. She admired it far less than Gwendolyn had her own simple frock, and she found the question difficult to answer without giving offence. She compromised by saying:—

"Your mother must be very industrious to have made it, with all the housework and the children."

"If you ain't the greenest girl I know! My mother couldn't make a dress like this to save her life."

"O—oh!" stammered Amy.

"Indeed, she couldn't. This was made by a dressmaker. The best one in Ardsley, too. She charged me five dollars, and ma said it was too much. I think it was, myself, but what can you do? You must look right, you know; if you don't the girls will make fun of you, and the boys won't take you any place. Is there any boy you like, much?"

"Why, of course; though I know only three. Is this the way, around the corner?"

"Three? Who're they?"

"Hallam, and Fayette, and William Gladstone. Doesn't the mill village look cosy? The cunning little houses with their porches and gardens and neat palings. Such a lot of folks living together should have good times, I think."

"Oh, they do; prime. That's the 'Supe's' house, that big one, upon that little hill. That whole row belongs to the different 'bosses,'—of the setting room, the weavers, and the rest. The 'Supe' is real nice, I think, though some say he's stuck up. He was a poor boy, once,—as poor as a church mouse. Say, don't you feel sort of afraid to call on him, after all?"

"Why? No, indeed. Afraid? Why should I?"

"Oh, because."

Amy laughed and hastened forward. Nothing more was said until they reached the door, shadowed by vines from which not even yet all the leaves had fallen. The whole place had a sheltered, homelike appearance, which spoke well for the taste and kindliness of its owners.

"Yes; Mr. Metcalf is in. Would you like to see him? Ah, Gwendolyn, is it you? Walk in." Yet even Amy noticed that the maid's manner in welcoming her companion was less cordial than in welcoming herself. She concluded that there might be some truth in the assertion of this family considering themselves rather better than their neighbors.

They were ushered into a cheery sitting room, which seemed also a sort of library, for there were bookcases around the walls, and a table was spread with the current literature of the day. The room was small by comparison with those to which Amy had been accustomed, but what it lacked in size it made up for in comfort. A coal fire glowed on the hearth, a bird sang in its cage before the window, and about the floor were scattered the playthings that told that it was the resort of children.

The girls were not kept waiting. Mr. Metcalf entered almost at once, nodded kindly to Gwendolyn, and cordially extended his hand to Amy.

"I am very pleased to see you, Miss Amy. Sit nearer the fire, for it's right cold to-day."

"Thank you, but I'm not cold, and I don't wish to detain you. Gwendolyn tells me that it is your holiday, too, and that you go to Wallburg."

Mr. Metcalf glanced across at the other girl, who bridled and simpered as she adjusted her hat and settled her skirts.

"She goes there herself, I fear, rather too much. Eh, Gwendolyn?"

"I go when I please," answered the mill girl, pertly. She resented something in the tone of her superintendent, feeling that out of work hours he had no authority over her.

"Oh, of course. By the way, there's the stage just ready for the other end of the village. Do you see it, Miss Amy? The shop mistress, Mrs. Hackett, sends one over every Saturday afternoon to carry our folks free to her place of business. She's an enterprising person, but, unfortunately, as soon as she had adopted this plan, two other merchants of the town set up rival stages also. It's very funny, sometimes, to see the respective drivers' efforts to secure passengers, and therefore custom."

At the mention of stages, Gwendolyn rose and looked through the window. Then she turned toward Amy like a person in great haste.

"Tell the 'Supe' what you came for, Amy, so we can get a ride over,—that is, if you want to go shopping with me after all."

But poor Amy could not reply just then. It had come over her with a rush what her errand really meant to her, and she was wholly indifferent to the charms of a stage or even "shopping."

"Don't wait for me, please,—that is, of course, I will keep my word, but—"

"All right, then, some other day. I'll be up to see how you made out, and if Mr. Metcalf don't want it maybe I'll hear of somebody else who does. By, by. Good day, sir," and off she tore, banging the door and shouting loudly to the driver of Mrs. Hackett's stage.

Mr. Metcalf watched her in silence till she had climbed the steps at the rear of the omnibus, and then he remarked:—

"That girl has so much sense that she ought to have more."

"That's a doubtful compliment, isn't it?" asked Amy, smiling.

"I suppose so, though it's quite true. She is warmhearted, generous to a fault, and as silly as they make them. However, she has given me the pleasure of seeing you to-day, and I hope that you will tell me how I can be of use to you. From Gwendolyn's words I judge that you came upon some special errand."

"Yes; I came to ask if you would like to buy my white burro."

"Ah, you are tired of her? I mean you wish to sell her? Has she been misbehaving or interfering with 'Bony' again?"

"No, she has been very, very good, and I don't at all wish to part with her; but I want some money very badly, and that is the only thing—the only way I could get it."

"I am very glad you came to me. Ever since I made Miss Pepita's acquaintance, that day at the mill, I've wished I could find another like her for my little Nanette. How much do you ask for the burro?"

"I don't ask anything. That is, I don't know how much she is worth."

"I think you told me that she was a gift to you?"

"Yes, from my uncle in California."

"Hmm, I've heard of him," commented the gentleman, briefly. "Now, I am almost as much in the dark in regard to the value of such animals as you are, but, at a rough estimate, I will offer you fifty dollars. Then I will make inquiries, and if I find I have named too small a price, I will add the balance. Is that satisfactory?"

"Oh, yes, indeed. Thank you. I—I shall be glad to have Pepita in such a nice place."

At home Amy had spoken to none save Cleena about this intention of hers, and that good creature had sighed and wiped her eyes, but had not uttered one word of protest. The girl sighed, too, now, and the superintendent felt it would be kind to cut the matter short.

"When can I send for her?"

"Oh, at—at any time, I suppose. Or, if you don't mind, I'd like to ride her here myself. Just once more."

Mr. Metcalf looked at his watch.

"In a few moments John will be passing by Bareacre on his way to the other village. You might drive up with him and ride her down here afterward. There will be ample time before dark, and you must tell your people not to be anxious, should there be any delay."

"Very well; and maybe Hallam, my brother, will come, also. Though he hasn't been told yet, and might not—"

"Very well. Excuse me for a moment. I will speak to John."

He did not add, nor Amy reflect, that it was a very long and roundabout way to reach "the other village," by passing over rough and steep Bareacre hill; but John was willing enough to take it, when he was told who was to be his companion on the route. He had liked Amy from the first, and had grown to know her fairly well during his time of helping the Kaye household to settle.

"All right, boss. Sorry the little thing is to give up her donkey. She set a powerful store by it, I 'low. Well, all ready? How do, Miss Amy? So me an' you're going to take a trip together, eh? Then I can find out for myself how the well is doing. Don't see much of 'Bony' since your folks took him in hand. Giddap, there, Jinny! Here we go!"

To pass the time agreeably John talked of everything which he imagined might be of interest to the silent girl beside him, but he elicited few replies, and had the stream of his words flow, for once, without interruption. Yet it seemed a very, very slow ride to Amy, and when it came to an end, she scarcely waited to thank John for his "lift" before she sped to the shed where Pepita was tied, and shutting the door behind her, threw her arms around the neck of the gentle beast, to cry as freely as she pleased.

"Bray! Br-a-ay! Ah-umph! Ah-u-umph!" inquired the burro, turning her head around as far as she could by reason of Amy's embrace.

"Oh, you darling, you dear old darling. Don't talk to me. Don't look at me as if you thought I had no heart. Do you think I don't love you, that I will sell you, Pepit'? But—it must be. It must be. Better you than Balaam, and even he—"

"Ah-umph! A-ah-umph! Br-r-r-ay! Bray-bray-bray! B-r-a-y-a-u-m-p-h!!" protested Balaam, with great haste and emphasis; and this sound was an added pang in the heart of the unhappy Amy, who felt that she was not only breaking her own heart by this separation, but the hearts of this four-footed pair as well.

Then she heard a sound along the frozen ground, and instantly she lifted her head, pulled her Tam over her eyes to hide the traces of tears, and called out, gayly:—

"Is that you, Hal dear? What do you think? You and I are to ride down to Mr. Metcalf's, right away now. Is Fayette in the house? I want him to help me groom Pepita to 'the Queen's taste,' as he says. Halloo to him, for me, please."

But instead of that the brother hobbled into the shed and asked:—

"Why should we go there? I don't want to. I've no fondness for paying visits."

"But you must go this time, Hal. You really, really must. I'll tell you why, by and by."



CHAPTER XIV.

PEPITA FINDS A NEW HOME.

When the cripple firmly declined the visit, Cleena found some errand for Fayette to do at the "general store" in the mill village. Hallam thought it a little queer that he was not greatly urged in the matter, and that Cleena should ask him to let Fayette ride Balaam.

"For you know, Goodsoul, how I hate to have anybody ride him, except myself. Not even Amy is really welcome, though she does sometimes. I don't see why she goes, anyway. What have we to do with any of these people? When mother is ill, too. If I were a daughter, I'd stay at home."

Cleena wheeled about from scrubbing the kitchen table and retorted, impatiently:—

"Don't you go throwing blame on Miss Amy, lad. Arrah musha! but she's the more sense of the lot of us, so she has, bless her bonny heart. An' that sunbright an' cheerful, no matter—"

"She's not very cheerful this afternoon, Cleena. I believe she'd been crying, just now, when I found her in the shed. I fancy she'll find a ride anything but funny, on such a day as this. I like the warm fire better than the road in such weather."

"Get back to it then, child. There's your book yon, on the settle. Wait. Carry in a bowl of porridge to the mistress, an you can? Heigh! Move them crutches easy now, an' not spill the stuff all over me nice floor."

In her heart Cleena was very proud of her deft-handed "child," who could do so many helpful things, even though a cripple, and she watched him cross the wide room, swinging easily along on his "other feet," yet holding the bowl of steaming liquid upright and safely. Then she sighed, and going to the door called:—

"Me Gineral Bonaparty, come by!"

Fayette was digging, even though the ground was frozen, and it would be months before anything could grow again. But the simple fellow was a "natural farmer," and it was his intention to "let her lie fallow this winter. Next summer I'll show you a garden'll make your eyes bung out. I'm the best gard'ner anywhere's round, I am."

He now replied:—

"What fer? I want to get this side gone over, this afternoon. Then come Monday I'm goin' to get some trees down brook way, an' get John to haul 'em up an' set 'em out, an' get Miss Amy—"

"Faith, what else'll you 'get' with your 'get' an' 'get,' I'd know. Come by, I tell ye, to wonst."

When Cleena spoke in that tone, it was noticeable that Fayette always obeyed. He now threw down his spade, though reluctantly, and sauntered to the kitchen door.

"A woman hain't got no sense nohow, stopping a man from his work."

"An' all the sense a man body has, me fathers, is to keep a woman standin' in her doorway. I'm wantin' ye to go to the store down below. Master Hallam's for lettin' ye ride Balaam. Off with ye, now, an' clean the beast's coat, sayin' nothin' of Miss Amy's own little white. Will she ride with ye? What for no? Proud you be, says I, to be escortin' of the like o' her."

Fayette's eyes shone. The desire of his heart was to possess Balaam for himself; failing this, to have the privilege of using the pretty creature occasionally.

"How happened it? How does she want to go there in such a wind? Blows the hair right off your head, I 'low. I'd ruther go alone, I would."

"'Ruthers' is all froze up. Haste along with ye now, an' be off. Mind ye talk pretty to my colleen, 'cause—No matter."

Fayette made swift work of the grooming, and only a few moments later Amy and he rode out of the enclosure. As she descended the slope, the girl turned and waved her hand cheerfully to Cleena, then set her face toward the valley and relapsed into silence.

Fayette endured this as long as he could, for though he rarely needed anybody else to speak, this afternoon he was annoyed by his companion's preoccupation.

"What's the matter, Amy? You ain't said a word since we started."

"Haven't I? and we're almost there, already. Well, I was thinking. That's all. I'll try to do better on the way home."

"Feelin' bad about your ma? Land, she'll get well. All she wants is a bit o' boneset tea, or sage an' sassafras. I'll go yarb hunting to-morrow, if I get my garden ploughed. Cleena'll stew it. Say, have you heard my new one? Hark to this."

He pulled from his pocket a small jewsharp and began to "play" upon it in the most nerve-rasping manner.

"Oh, Fayette, another? Why, you must have a half-dozen already. I come upon them everywhere about the house, in the rooms where you are."

"Ain't got none now but this. I bought it to Mis' Hackett's. Cleena's took my others. Got 'em all in her kitchen draw'. 'Low she'll get this if you tell on me."

"I'll not need. You'll have it out to show her how talented you are, and then—away goes your pride, your jewsharp, and all."

"Hmm, she better try. I'll teach her a lesson some day she ain't goin' to ferget. That woman bosses me too much. I ain't a-goin' to stand it. You'll see. I'll clear out an' leave the whole kerboodle first you know. Sho! Here we be."

"Indeed. Well, I'm sorry to have reached the place so soon, though it is pretty cold."

"You go in and see the 'Supe's' folks. I'll ride along an' do my arrants. Cleena'd ruther trust me than you, wouldn't she? I'm a master hand for a trade, an' she knows it. Say, I do wish he'd sell me Balaam."

"You must drop that subject, really, Fayette. Even if Hallam were to part with his burro, it would not be to you."

The simple lad's fierce temper rose in full force at Amy's blunt words.

"Like to know why not? Ain't my money as good as anybody's? Ain't I 'stuck up' enough to suit? He never rode in a parade, he didn't. Told me so himself."

"Nor do I think he ever will, and, of course, one person's money is as good as another's, excepting that we could never trust how long you would be kind to dear old Balaam. Hal would take much less to have the creature well treated than—I mean—Oh, don't get so angry; it's not worth while."

The more she tried to smooth matters over, the more indignant the other became. His harp was still between such discolored teeth as Pepita's former assault had left him, and added to the grotesqueness of his appearance as he glared upon Amy. To finish what she had begun, she remarked:—

"Just tie him there, at that second post, please, and you'd best put his blanket on him."

"Tie him? I'm goin' to ride him to the village to let the boys see him an' try him. I promised I would. Tie him! I shan't neither!"

"You certainly will not ride him to wherever those dreadful boys are. Nobody shall touch him, except you or me, and you ought not."

Fayette gave her one more angry glance, leaped from his saddle with a jerk, and bestowed upon the unoffending burro a vicious kick. Then he disappeared down the street, and Amy tied Pepita in haste, that she might look after the other animal also.

Just then she heard a step upon the path behind her, and the superintendent's pleasant voice, saying:—

"Well, young lady, you are certainly prompt, and promptness is a cardinal virtue—from a business man's point of view. See, here is the little girl for whom you are giving up your pet."

"Ah, indeed."

Amy smiled upon the child, who might have been ten years of age, and the fragile little creature appeared to smile in return. Then it came over the visitor that there was something out of common in that uplifted, happy face, and that the smile was not in response to her own greeting. The wide blue eyes looked upward, truly, but with the blank stare of one who sees nothing.

"Ah, is it so?" cried Amy, a second time, watching with what hesitation the little girl moved along the path, and how persistently she clung to her father's hand.

"Yes, blind; quite blind—from her birth," said Mr. Metcalf, sadly.

Amy was on her knees in a moment, clasping the child's slight body in her arms and saying:—

"Then I'm glad, glad that you are to have Pepita. She is the dearest, nicest burro—except when she's bad—and will carry you wherever you want to go,—that is, if she is willing. You dear little girl, she shall be yours, without that money either. I never knew about you before, or you should have had her before, too."



Mr. Metcalf smiled, well pleased. His blind daughter was the idol of his flock, and anybody who was attracted by her became interesting to him. Amy had been so, even before this incident, but he liked her heartily now.

"So, Miss Amy, though you hated to part with your burro for money, you would do so willingly for love and sympathy?"

"Why, of course. If I'd only known—"

"You will not make a good business woman, at this rate. But this wind is sharp. I mustn't keep Nanette out here long, else her mother will worry, and that wouldn't do. Suppose, since you know more about donkeys than I do, that you give my girl her first riding lesson. Reach Miss Amy your hand, dear heart."

Amy caught the little white-mittened fingers in her own and kissed them impulsively. Then she rose and placed the child on Pepita's saddle.

"Take hold of the bridle, so, in both hands, now, till you learn how. I'll keep my arm about you. No, dear, you cannot fall. I wouldn't let you, even if Pepita would, and she's in a gentle mood to-day. Aren't you, Pepit'?"

"Br-a-ay! Ah-ump!" responded the burro. She did not always have her replies so ready, and, for an instant, it seemed as if she would frighten her new mistress. But there was always something absurdly amusing in Pepita's tones, and after the first shock of hearing them had passed, Nanette burst into a merry laugh that made the others laugh too.

"Oh, doesn't she talk nicely! Does she always answer so quick?"

"No, indeed. Sometimes the naughty little beast will not say a single bray. She has many moods, has Pepit'. You'll find them all out, though, after a while. Now, how do you like it? Isn't the motion soft and gentle?"

"Oh, if mamma could see!" cried the happy little girl, turning her sunny face toward Amy. Then she suddenly pulled off her mittens and drew her new friend's head down so that she could feel the unfamiliar features. Swiftly, lightly, the tiny finger-tips passed over every one, then travelled upward and lost themselves in the close rings of hair under the scarlet Tarn. "Now, I'll know you forever. What color is your hair? What is your hood, or bonnet?"

"My hair is very dark brown, or almost black, I think. My Tarn is red. But do you know colors?"

"I know what they are like to me. Papa says that maybe that is not the same as they are in the truly world, but I don't care. They are pretty and suit me, my blind colors do. I like you. I like you very much. I think you are lovely, lovely to give me your don-key—"

"But I didn't. That is, I will, since I know about you; but I asked your father to buy her first. I wouldn't—"

"Oh, never mind. It's all the same, isn't it? It would be in my blind world. She was yours and now she is mine, and you're lovely. Oh, I wish mamma could see!"

"Why, can't she, dear? Is she—"

"No," interrupted the superintendent, smiling. "No, she isn't blind. The only body in our household who is able to see beautiful things with her eyes shut is Nanette, here; and the only trouble with the mother is that there is a new baby in her room just now, so she hasn't time or strength to get up and look out of window at new burros. She thinks the new babies are the nicer of the two sorts. Eh, Nan, child?"

"I suppose she does, but I don't. Pooh! there have been three new baby sisters that I can remember, and once I was a new baby sister myself, to my brothers. They're so common, you know; but I don't think of any girl anywhere, except you, and now me, that has had a new snow-white donkey. Do you?"

"No, I do not," laughed Amy.

Mr. Metcalf invited Amy into the house, while he led the burro around to the little stable in the rear, which was to be Pepita's new home. Amy would have liked to throw her arms about the hairy white neck, but pride forbade, and so the parting was made without any sign of distress on either side. Pepita was eager for shelter, and her late mistress to hear what the blind child was saying.

"It's right this way into the sitting room. I love the sitting room best. That's where papa has his books and papers, and it smells like him. He smokes, you know, but only in this room or out of doors. Oh, do help me think! Mamma, dear heart, says I am to name this last little new baby. Just fancy it! I, myself! And it bothers me terrifically. I would want a nice long name, the longest that's in the books; but papa says that there are so many little folks who like us and come to live with us, that we mustn't spend time on long names. Oh, I've just thought! I'll name her 'Amy.' That's short, isn't it? Could a body nickname it? We don't like nicknames here. I'm the only one. I'm sometimes 'Nan' to papa. When the baby last before this one came, mamma named her Abby after Grandmother Abigail. Then she thought we couldn't ever stop to say Ab-i-ga-il, so she shortened it to Abby. Next thing, listen. Abby was crying one day and Rex heard her, and grandmother asked, 'What's that?' 'cause she's deaf and doesn't hear straight, and Rex said, 'Oh, that's nothing but little Ab!' She was just three days old then, and mamma thought if her name got cut in two so quick as that, she wouldn't have any at all in a week or two longer. So she's just Ruth now; and when the boys say 'Ruth-y,' papa makes them put a nickel in the box. Do you have a nickel box on your bookcase?"

"No, indeed. Tell me about it. I've never heard of such a thing."

"Why, it's this way. Feel me your hand. I'll show you." And as if she could see perfectly, Nanette guided Amy to the further side of the room, where stood a pretty, polished box upon the bookshelf. The box had a slit in its cover, and it jingled merrily in the blind child's hand.

"Hear! We must have been pretty bad this month. But that makes it all the better for the little 'fresh airers,' doesn't it? Sometimes, when I think about them, I just want to do things—not nice things—all the time, so as to make more money for them. But of course it wouldn't be honorable, and I wouldn't do it."

"Do you put the nickels in when you are 'naughty'?"

"Yes, for crossness and unpolite words and messing at table and—lots of things. Once—" Nanette paused and turned her eyes toward Amy for a long time. Then she again passed those delicate finger-tips over the other's face, and decided:—

"Yes, I can trust you. Once one of us, I couldn't tell you which one, but one of us told a wrong story, a falsehood, an untruth. One of the dreadful things that made our dear Lord kill Ananias and Sapphira dead. Wasn't that awful? Mamma and papa didn't know what to do. A nickel didn't seem much pay for a lie, did it? So they made it a dollar. Yes, ma'am, one whole dollar. That's twenty nickels. Oh, it was so unhappy those days! I was gladder than ever that I was blind. I think I should have died to see the bad face of the one that did it while it was bad. But mamma says such a lesson is never, never forgotten. You see, we haven't any right to be bad, have we?"

"I suppose not, dear. What a wise little thinker you are!"

"Papa says I think too much. That's why, one why, he was so glad to get me the burro. He hopes it will stop me some. But in a home a body must remember it isn't his home nor her home, but the home of everybody that belongs. If I should be naughty, it would throw things all out of—of smoothness, don't you know. I can't be naughty all by myself. If I could—no, I wouldn't like it either. When I'm selfish or bad, I always feel as if I had on a dirty apron, and I do just hate dirty clothes!"

"And you do just love to talk, little one," cried the superintendent, coming in and catching up his daughter in his strong arms. "We tell her, Miss Amy, that she makes up for what she doesn't see by what she does say. Eh, midget?"

Nanette cuddled her fair head against her father's beard, and turned her eyes toward Amy. It seemed impossible to believe that those beautiful eyes could not really behold whereon they rested, and the tears of sympathy rose to Amy's own as she tried to comprehend this.

"Isn't he a dear, funny papa? But you just wait until you see my mother. She's the nicest thing in this whole world. Oh, papa, shall I call the baby 'Amy'?"

"If you like, darling. It's a pleasant, old-fashioned name."

"I'll tell you a better one, though it's longer. That is 'Salome.'"

"Who's she?" asked Nanette.

"My mother. As you feel about yours, I think she is the sweetest thing in this whole world."

"Sa-lo-me, Sa-lo-me," repeated the child, slowly. "That is pretty. What do you say about that, papa?"

"As you and mother please, darling. It is a good name. But now, dear, run away. I have to talk business with this new friend of yours, and where you are—eh?"

"Yes, I do talk, don't I? I love to talk. Good-by, Amy. Please come again to see me, and every time you must ride on Peppy—what is her name?"

"Pe-pi-ta. It is Spanish and very pretty, I think."

"Pay-pee-tah," repeated Nanette, imitating the sound and ignorant of the spelling.

"Now, Miss Amy, I've had your saddle put upon your brother's burro. You can ride him home, and I will have 'Bony' carry the other saddle. To-morrow he shall bring the girl's saddle back to Nanette, and I echo her invitation that you should come often to visit us and ride upon your own, old favorite. Here is the envelope with the money, and since you must go at all, I'll urge you to go at once. There is another squall coming, and it will darken early."

As she rode homeward a doctor's phaeton passed her. It was being driven rapidly, and a face peered out at her from beneath the hood. Then it stopped and waited for her to approach.

"Do you belong at the 'Spite House'?"

"Yes; why?"

"Make haste. Drive on."



CHAPTER XV.

FACING HARD FACTS.

"Make haste. Drive on."

The words sang themselves into Amy's brain as she urged Balaam up the slope, and for days thereafter they returned to her, the last vivid memory of that happy time before bereavement came.

Then followed a season of confusion and distress; and now that a fortnight was over she sat beside a freshly made mound in Quaker burying-ground, trying to collect her thoughts and to form a definite plan for her future.

The end of a gentle, beneficent life had come with merciful suddenness, and the face of Salome Kaye was now hidden beneath this mound where her child sat, struggling with her grief, and bravely endeavoring to find the right way out of many difficulties. Finally, she seemed to have done so, for she rose with an air of grave decision and kneeling for one moment in that quiet spot, rose again, and passed swiftly from the place.

Hallam was at the cemetery gate, resting sadly against the lichen-covered stone post, and waiting for her return. Indian summer had come, a last taste of warmth and brightness before the winter closed, and despite their sorrow nature soothed them with her loveliness. In any case, whether from that cause or from her own will, the girl found it easier than she had expected to speak with her brother upon their material affairs.

"Shall we stop here a little while, Hal dear, to talk, or will we go on slowly toward home? I've been thinking, up—up there beside mother, and I've found a way, I hope."

"I don't care where, though I'd rather not talk. What good does it do? I hate it. I hate home. I hate this place worse—Oh, it's wicked! It's cruel! Why did she ever have to leave Fairacres! She might be—"

Amy's hand went up to Hallam's lips. "Hush! Do you suppose God blunders? I don't. If He had meant her to stay with us, He would have found a way to cure her. To think otherwise is torture. No. No, no, indeed no! Father is left and so are we. We have got to live and take care of him and of ourselves."

"I should like to know how. I—a miserable good-for-naught, and you—a girl."

"Exactly, thank you, just a girl. But a girl who loves her brother and her father all the more because—she loved them too. A girl who has made up her mind to do the first thing and everything that offers, which will help to make them comfortable; who is going to put her family pride in her pocket and go to work. There, it's out!"

"Go—out—to—work, Amy—Kaye!"

"Yes, indeed. Don't take it so hard, dear."

In spite of himself he smiled. Then he remembered. "I don't see how you can laugh or jest—so soon. As if—but you must care."

"Just because I do care, so very, very much. Oh, Hal, don't dream I'm not missing her every hour of the day. I fancy I hear her saying now, this moment, as she used to say when I'd been naughty and was penitent: 'If thee loves me so much, dear, thee will try to do the things I like.' The one thing she liked, she lived, was a brave helpfulness toward everybody she knew. She didn't wait for great things, she did little things. Now, the first little things that are facing us are: the earning of our rent and of our food."

Hallam said nothing. He knocked a stone aside with the end of his crutch, and groaned.

"I'm going to work in the mill," she continued.

"Amy! Father expressly forbade that, or even any mention of it. You, a Kaye!"

"He has given me permission, even though I am a Kaye." She tried to smile still, but found it hard in the face of his want of sympathy, even indignation.

"Do you think he knew what he was saying when he did it?"

"Yes, Hallam, I do. It seems to me that father is more like other folks since this trouble came than he was before. I was worried and asked the doctor, for I remembered mother always used to spare him everything painful or difficult that she could. The doctor said:—

"'It may be that this blow will do more to restore him than all her tender care could do.'

"And then I asked him something else. It was—what was the matter with him—if it was all his heart. He said, 'No, indeed. It's his head.' He was in a great fire, at a hotel where he was staying, a long time ago. He was nearly killed, and many other people were killed. For a while he thought that mother had been burned, they had gotten separated some way, and it made him—insane, I suppose. But when she was found, in a hospital where he was taken, he got better. He isn't at all insane now, the doctor says, but is only a little confused. Mother never had us told about it, because she wanted we should think our father just perfect, and for that reason she drew him into this quiet life that we always have lived. If he wanted to spend money foolishly, she never objected. She hoped that by not opposing any wish he would get wholly well. Part of this Cleena has told me, for she thought we ought to know, now, and part the doctor said. Oh, Hal, I think it will be grand, grand, to take care of him as nearly like she did as we can. Don't you?"

Hallam's eyes sparkled. "Amy, I always said she was the most beautiful woman in the world, in character as well as person."

"To us, she certainly was. My plan is this: I will go to Mr. Metcalf and ask him to give me a place in the mill. If those other girls can work, so can I."

"Do you know who owns the mills now?"

"Yes; our cousin Archibald Wingate."

"And you would work for him? You would demean yourself to that? Yet you know how, when he offered us money last week, or to do other things for us, both father and I indignantly declined."

"Yes, I know. I, too, was glad we didn't have to take it, though I do not believe he is as bad as we think. We look at him from this side; but if we could from the other, he might not seem so hard-hearted. He said he was sorry. He seemed to feel very badly."

"Yes, and when he came and asked Cleena to let him see—her, just once more, she gave him a reproof that must have struck home. She told him he was practically the cause of mother's death,—his driving her from Fairacres,—and I shall always feel so, too."

"I hope not, dear."

"Well, I hate him. I hope I can sometime make him suffer all he has made us."

"But, Hal, that is vindictive. To be vindictive is not half as noble as to be just. Mother was just. While it grieved her to leave her home, she fully appreciated how much he must long for it. It was their grandmother's, you know, and he felt he had a right there. I do not blame him half as much as I pity him. He's such a lonely old fellow, it seems to me."

"Humph! I wouldn't work for him and take his money. I should feel as if it were tainted."

For a moment Amy was staggered by this view of her brother's. Then it dropped into its proper place in the argument, and she went on:—

"It would be pleasanter to work for somebody else. But there is nobody else. I think Mr. Wingate has very little to do with the employees of the mill. It's Mr. Metcalf who pays them, and he's a dear, good friend already. I'm going to see him this afternoon. I asked Gwendolyn to tell him I was coming, but I suppose he thinks it is about selling Balaam. He's ready to take him off your hands if you want to part with him. That seventy-five dollars he paid for Pepita and the saddle and harness was such a blessing. It carried us through; we couldn't have done without it, unless we'd let Mr. Wingate help."

"Never! Well, I suppose he'll have to take him. If I can't work, I can give up, as well as you."

"No, Hal, I don't want to sell him yet. Wait till the last thing and we can't help it. Do try to think kindly of what I'm doing, dear. Down in my heart I'm pretty proud, too. But you start home. I'll take a bit of lunch and then start out to seek my fortune. Wish me luck, laddie; or, rather, bid me God-speed."

She lifted her face for his kiss, and he gave it heartily. It was to the sensitive, proud, undisciplined boy the very hardest moment of his life, save and apart from his bereavement.

"To think, Amy, little sister, that I, who should be your protector and supporter, am just—this!"

"Hush! you shall not point so contemptuously to those poor legs. I think they are very good legs, indeed. There's nothing the matter with them except that they won't move. They've been indulged so long—"

"Amy, I don't understand you. First you seem so cheerful; then you make light of my lameness. Are you forgetful, or what?"

"Not forgetful, nor hard-hearted. Just 'what,' which means that I believe you could learn to walk if you would."

"Amy! Amy!!"

"Hallam!"

"Do you suppose I wouldn't if I could?"

"Hal, do you ever try?"

He looked at her indignantly; then he reflected that, in fact, he never did try. But to convince her he made an effort that instant. Tossing his crutches to the ground, he tried to force his limbs forward over the ground. They utterly failed to respond to his will, and he would have fallen had not Amy's arms caught and supported him.

"There, you see!"

"For the first attempt it was fine. Bravo! Encore!"

Yet she picked up his "other legs" and gave him, then led Balaam away from the late thistle blooms he was browsing. Hallam mounted, crossed his crutches before him, and lifted his cap. Amy tossed him a kiss and turned millward, while he ascended the hill road. But no sooner was she out of sight than her assumed cheerfulness gave way, and for a time it was a sad-faced girl who trudged diligently onward toward duty and a life of toil.

Gwendolyn had delivered her message, and the superintendent welcomed Amy to his office at the mill with a friendly nod and smile; but, at that moment, he was deep in business with a strange gentleman, negotiating for a large sale of carpets, and after his brief greeting he apparently forgot the girl. She remained standing for some moments, then Mr. Metcalf beckoned an attendant to give her a chair and the day's newspaper.

Her heart sank even lower than before. The superintendent appeared a different person from the friend she had met in his own home. Her throat choked. She felt that she should cry, if she did not make some desperate effort to the contrary; so she began to read the paper diligently, though her mind scarcely followed the words she saw, and would deflect to those she heard, which were very earnest, indeed, though all about a matter no greater than one-eighth cent per yard.

"How queer! Two great grown men to stand there and argue about such a trifle. Why, there isn't any such coin, and what does it mean? Well, I'm eavesdropping, and that's wrong. Now I will read. I will not listen."

Running in this wise, her thoughts at last fixed themselves upon a paragraph which she had perused several times without comprehending. Now it began to have a meaning for her, and one so intense that she half rose to beg the loan of the newspaper that she might show it to Hallam.

"The very thing. The very thing I heard those doctors talking about in mother's room. I'll ask for it, or copy it, if I can, and show my boy. Who knows what it might do?"

There was a little movement in the office. The gentleman in the big top-coat, with his eyeglasses, his gold-handled umbrella, and his consequential air, was leaving. He was bowing in a patronizing sort of way, and Mr. Metcalf was bowing also, smiling almost obsequious. He was rubbing his hair upward from his forehead, in a way Amy had already observed to be habitual when he was pleased. Evidently he was pleased now, and greatly so, for even after the stranger had passed out and entered the cab in waiting, the superintendent remained before the glass door, still smiling with profound satisfaction.

Then, as if he had suddenly remembered her, he turned toward Amy.

"Well, miss, what can I do for you to-day? I saw you were interested in our argument over the fraction of a cent, and I'm glad to tell you I won. Yes, I carried my point."

The girl was disgusted. Though she liked to know her friends from every side of their characters, she was not pleased by this glimpse of Mr. Metcalf's.

He saw her feeling in her face and took it merrily, dropping at last into the manner which she knew and liked best.

"A small business, you're thinking, eh? Well, Miss Amy, let me tell you that on this one deal, this one sale, my gaining that fraction of a cent means the gaining to my employer of several thousand dollars. And that is worth contesting, don't you think?"

"It doesn't seem possible. Just that tiny eighth! Why, how many, many yards you must sell!"

"Indeed, yes. The mills are constantly turning out great quantities and, fortunately, the market is free. We dispose of them as fast as we can finish. We could sell more if we could manufacture more. But this is not what has brought you here, I fancy. Tell me your errand, please. I have much to get through with before closing."

The return to his business manner again chilled Amy's enthusiasm, but she thought of her father and what she hoped to do for him, and needed no other aid to her courage.

"I've come to ask a place in the mill. I want to work and get paid."

"Certainly. If you work, you will be paid. What makes you want to do it? Does your father know?"

"He has consented. I think he understands, though he didn't seem to care greatly, either way. I must do it, sir, or something. It was the only thing I knew about."

"You know nothing about that, really. The girls here are from an altogether different class than that to which you belong. You would not find it pleasant."

"That wouldn't matter. And aren't we all Americans? Equal?"

"Theoretically. How much do you suppose you could earn?"

"I don't know. Whatever my work was worth."

"That, at the beginning, would be not more than two dollars a week, and probably less. It would be fatiguing, constant standing in attending to your 'jenny.' I really think that you would better abandon the idea at once. Try to think of something nearer what you have known."

Yet he saw the deepening distress in her face and it grieved him. He was bound, in all honesty to her, to set the dark side of things before her, and he waited for her decision with some curiosity.

"If you'll let me try, I would like to do so."



CHAPTER XVI.

AMY BEGINS TO SPIN.

"Well, deary, it's time. Oh, me fathers, to think it! Wake up, Amy, me colleen, me own precious lamb."

Six o'clock of a gray November morning is not an inspiriting hour to begin any undertaking. Amy turned in her comfortable bed, rubbed her eyes, saw Cleena standing near with a lighted candle in her hand, and inquired, drowsily:—

"Why—what's happened? Why will you get up in the middle of the night? Don't bother me—yet."

"Faith, an' I won't. Upon honor it's wrong, it's all wrong. What'll your guardian angel think of old Cleena to be leavin' you do it! Body an' bones, I'll do naught to further the business—not I!"

The woman's voice was tremulous with indignation or grief, and all at once Amy remembered. Then she sprang from her cosy nest, wide-awake and full of courage.

"Hush, dear old Goodsoul, I forgot. I forgot, entirely. I was dreaming of Fairacres. It was a beautiful dream. The old house was full of little children and young girls. They were singing and laughing and moving about everywhere. I can hardly believe it wasn't real; but, I'm all right now. I'll be down stairs in a few minutes. Don't wake anybody else, for there's no need. Is it six o'clock already? It might be midnight or—any time. Why, what's this?"

"A frock I've made for you, child."

"You made a frock for me? Why, Cleena!"

"Sure, it's not so handy with the needle as the broom me fingers is. But what for no? Them pretty white ones will never do for the nasty old mill. This didn't need so much. The body'll about fit, thinks I, if I sew it fast in the front an' split it behind. The skirt's not so very long. She was a mite of a woman, God rest her. Well, I'll go an' see the milk doesn't boil over, an' be back in a jiffy to fasten it for you. Ah, me lamb! Troth, a spirit's brave like your own will be prospered, I know."

Then Cleena went hurriedly out of the room. The frock which she had prepared for Amy's use in the mill was remodelled from an old one of her mistress's. As has been said, Amy had never worn any sort of dress except white. The fabric was changed to suit the season, but the color was not. Even her warm winter cloak was of heavy white wool, faced here and there with scarlet, to match the simple scarlet headgear that suited her dark face so well. Quite against the habits of her own upbringing, Mrs. Kaye had clothed her daughter to please the taste of her artist husband, and therefore it had not greatly mattered that this taste dictated a style more fanciful than useful.

Now everything was altered, and Cleena had consulted Mrs. Jones with the result just given. But from a true delicacy, the faithful old servant did not stay to watch the girl as she adopted the new garb which belonged to the new fortunes, though she need not have been afraid.

For a moment Amy held the gray dress in her hand, feeling it almost a sacrilege to put it on. She remembered it as the morning gown of her mother, plain to the extreme, yet graceful and precious in her sight because of the dear wearer. Then she lifted the garment to her lips, and touched it lightly.

"Mother, darling, it is a good beginning. It seems to me it is like a sister of mercy putting on her habit for the first time. It is a protection and a benediction. If I can only put on my mother's beautiful character with her clothing, I shall do well, indeed." Then she examined the alterations which Cleena had been instructed by the cottager to make, and was able to smile at them.

"The new sewing and the old do not match very well, but it will answer, and it does fit me much better than I would have thought. My! but I must already be as large, or nearly so, as she was. Well, no time for thinking back now. It's all looking forward, and must be, if I am to keep my courage."

Then she knelt beside her bed, prayed simply and in full faith for success in her efforts to provide for her beloved ones, and went below, smiling and gay.

"Think of it, Cleena Keegan. This is Monday morning. On seventh day I expect to bring back two splendid dollars and put into your hands. I, just I, your own little Amy. Think of the oatmeal it will buy."

It was not in Cleena's heart to dampen this ardor by remarking how small a sum two dollars really was, considered in the light of a family support; and, after all, oatmeal was cheap. Fortunately, it also formed the principal diet of this plainly nurtured household, and even that very breakfast to which the young breadwinner now sat down.

But the meal was exquisitely cooked, and the hot milk was rich and sweet. Also, there lay, neatly wrapped in a spotless napkin, the mid-day luncheon, which Cleena had been told to prepare, and which Mrs. Jones suggested should be of something "hearty and strong" for "working in the mill beats all for appetite."

Then Amy took the big gingham pinafore, that Cleena had also prepared, and with her little parcels under her arm, skipped away down the slope to the Joneses' cottage, where Gwendolyn was to meet and escort her to her first day's work.

"Pshaw! I thought you wasn't coming. We'll be late if we don't hurry. Hmm. Wore your white cloak, didn't you? Well, I guess the girls won't laugh at you much. A dark one would have been better."

"But I have no dark one, so it was this or nothing. How fast you walk, almost as if you were running!"

"We'll be late, I tell you. I don't want to get docked, if you do."

"What is 'docked'?"

"Why, having something taken from your wages."

"Would that be done for just so short a time?"

"Yes, indeed. The time-keeper watches out and nobody has a chance to get off. To be late five minutes means losing a quarter day's wages. They count off a quarter, a half, three-quarters, or a whole, according to time."

"Then Gwendolyn, let's run. I wouldn't make you lose for anything."

"All right."

When they arrived at the mill, Gwendolyn said:—

"You come this way with me. Hang your cap and coat right here, next to mine. Never mind if the girls do stare, you'll get used to that. I felt as if I should sink the first day I came, though that was ages ago. Hello, Maud, where was you last night?"

Amy did not feel in the least like "sinking." She had overcome her drowsiness, and the light was already growing much stronger. She looked around upon these strangers who were to be her comrades at toil, with a friendly interest and curiosity. Some of her new mates regarded her with equal curiosity, though few with so kindly an interest as her own. The unconscious ease of Amy's bearing they esteemed "boldness," or even "cheek," and her air of superior breeding was distasteful to them.

"My, ain't she a brazen thing! Looks around on the whole crowd as if she thought she could put on all the airs she pleased, even in the mill. Well, 'ristocrat or no 'ristocrat, she'll have to come down here. We're just as good as she is and—"

"A little better, too, you mean," commented a lad, just passing.

The girl who scorned "'ristocrats" paused in fastening her denim apron and looked after the youth, who was, evidently, a personage of importance in the eyes of herself and mates. They watched his jaunty movements with undisguised admiration, and his passing left behind him a wake of smiles and giggles which to Amy seemed out of proportion to the wit of his remark.

However, there was little loitering, and the long procession of girls, with its sprinkling of men and boys, swiftly ascended the narrow open staircase to the upper floors. This staircase was built along the side wall of the great structure, flight above flight, an iron frame with steps of board. The only protection from falling upon the floor below, should one grow dizzy-headed, was a gas-pipe hand-rail; and even this might not have been provided had not the law compelled.

As she fell into line behind Gwendolyn and began the upward climb, Amy grasped this slender support firmly; but everything about her seemed very unlike her memory of her first visit here. Then the sun was shining, she was under the guidance of the genial superintendent, and the scene was novel—like a picture exhibited for her personal entertainment. Now the novelty was past, the scene had become dingy, and herself a part of it.

All around her were voices talking in a sort of mill patois concerning matters which she did not understand. But nobody, not even Gwendolyn, spoke to her, and a sudden, overpowering dismay seized her stout heart and made her head reel. Then she made a misstep and her foot slipped through the space between two stairs. This brought the hurrying procession to a standstill, and recalled attention to the "new hand."

"My sake! Somebody's fell. Who? Is she hurt? Oh, that donkey girl. Well, she ain't so used to these horrid stairs as we be."

"Hold back! She's sort of giddy-headed, I guess."

Amy felt an arm thrown round her waist, a rather ungentle pull was given her dangling foot, and she was set right to proceed. But for an instant she could not go on, and she again felt the arm supporting and forcing her against the bare brick wall, so that those below might not be longer hindered.

Then she half gasped:—

"Oh, I am so sorry. I didn't mean—"

"Of course you didn't. Never mind. You ain't the first girl has had her foot through these steps, and you won't be the last. After somebody has broke a leg or two, then they'll put backboards to 'em. Not before. Is your head swimming yet?"

"It feels queerly. It jars so."

"That's the machinery and the noise. The whole building just shakes and buzzes when we get fairly started. Don't be scared. You're all safe. Lots of girls feel just that way when they first come. Lots of 'em faint away. Some can't stand it at all. But you'll get used, don't fear. I was one of the fainters, and I kept it up quite a spell. The 'boss' of the room got so mad he told me if I didn't quit fainting I'd have to quit spinning. So I made a bold face and haven't fainted since. You see, I couldn't afford to. I had to do this or starve."

By this time Amy's fright was past, and she was regarding her comforter with that friendly gratitude which won her the instant liking of the other, who resumed:—

"Pshaw! The girls didn't know what they were saying. You don't look a mite stuck up. You aren't, are you?"

"Indeed, no. Why should I be? But I do thank you so much for your kindness just now, and I'm sorry if my blundering has made you late. Will you be 'docked'?"

"Oh, no. We've time enough. Gwen is always in a desperate hurry. She likes a chance to talk before she begins work. She's a nice girl, but she isn't very deep. Say, have you seen her new winter hat?"

"No; has she another than that she wore this morning?"

"My! yes."

The "old hand" and the "new" were now quietly climbing to the top floor where their tasks were to be side by side, and Amy had time to examine her companion's face. It was plain and freckled, boasting none of that "prettiness" of which Gwendolyn was so openly proud, but it was gentle and intelligent, and had a look of delicacy which suggested chronic suffering, patiently borne. Amy had not far to seek the cause of this pathetic expression, for Mary Reese was a hunchback. In her attire there was as much simplicity as in Amy's own, but without grace or harmony of coloring.

"You're looking at my clothes, aren't you? Well, they're the great trouble of my life. After I pay my board and washing, I don't have more than fifty cents left. I do the best I can, but I'm no hand with a needle, and Saturday-halves are short. I thought you were the loveliest thing I ever saw, that day you went round the mill with the 'Supe.'"

"Oh, did you see me then? Did I see you? What is your name? Ah, are we up there already?"

"You can ask questions, can't you? Yes, I saw you. My name is Mary Reese. If you saw me, you certainly didn't notice me, and I'm always mighty glad when folks don't turn for a second stare at my poor shoulders."

"Mary, nobody would, surely," cried Amy, and flung her arm protectingly across the deformity of her new friend.

"You dear, to think you'd do that when you know me so little. Well, there's many a body touches my hump 'for luck,' but I can't remember when anybody did for—love. I'm not going to forget it, either. Even a homely little hunchback has her own power among these people. There, we're here. This is our 'jenny.' I'm so glad we are to work on the same machine. There'll be another girl on your side till you learn; then she'll be taken off and we'll be alone. I'll like that. Shall you?"

"I—think—so," responded Amy, absently, her attention now engrossed by the excitement about her. Girls were hurrying to take their places before the long frames filled with reels, on which fine woollen threads were being wound by the revolutions of the machinery overhead. These reels whirled round so rapidly that Amy could not follow their motion, and the buzz-buzz, as of a thousand bees humming, filled her ears and confused the instructions of the girl who was to give her her first lesson in winding and "tending."

Across the great frame Mary nodded encouragingly, but it is safe to say that Amy had never felt so incompetent and foolish as she did while she was striving to understand what was expected of her.

"No, no, no; you must be quicker. See, this spool is full. This is how. 'Doffer,' here!"

The lad who had created the ripple of admiration on his passage to this room, now approached. His motions were exact and incredibly swift. It was his duty to remove full spools and replace them by empty ones, and he did this duty for sixteen spinning frames. Seeing the "new hand's" astonishment at his deftness he became reckless and, intending an unusually dexterous movement, miscalculated his reach, and the result was a momentary tangle among the whirling spindles.

"Stupid, see what you're at!" cried Amy's instructor, as by a swift movement of her foot she brought the rapidly circling frame to a standstill. "Now, you've done it!"

"And I'll undo it," he returned, casting a side glance at the stranger.

"If those who've worked here so long make mistakes, I'll not give up," she thought; and Mary came round from behind the frame in time to read this thought.

"Don't you mind. You see, we have to be on guard all the time. If we're not, something happens like this. Wait. While they're fixing those spools, you watch me tie these threads. That's what you have to do. To keep everything straight and fasten on the new ends as the old ones run out."

"But I don't see you 'tie' it. There is no knot."

"Of course not. We couldn't have rough things in the thread that is going to make a carpet. We just twist it—so. Do you see? It can't pull apart, and it makes no roughness. Try; keep on trying; and after you have practised awhile, you'll be as swift as swift."

"I feel as slow as slow."

The "new hand" smiled into the eager face of her willing helper, and the poor hunchback's heart glowed. That so bright a creature should ever come to be a worker in that busy mill, side by side with her own self, was stranger than the strangest of the cheap novels she read so constantly.

"It beats all, don't it?" demanded Mary, clasping Amy's little brown hand.

"What, dear? What beats what? Have I done that one better? Do you think I'll ever, ever be able to keep up my side of the 'frame' after this other one leaves me?"

Mary's laugh was good to hear. Mr. Metcalf, entering the room, heard it and smiled. Yet his smile was fleeting, and his only comment a reprimand to "Jack doffer" for his carelessness.

"It must not happen again. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," answered the youth, humbly.

Of Amy herself the superintendent took no notice whatever beyond a curt nod. She did not understand this, and a pain shot through her sensitive heart. Then she reflected that he might not have seen her.

"Do you suppose he did, or that he knew me? You see, I've always worn white before, and maybe he did not recognize me."

"Oh, he saw you all right. He wouldn't more 'n nod to his own wife, if he's on his rounds, and full of business. I've heard that he was very pleasant outside the mill and among his folks, but I never saw him any different from just now. Seems to me he looks on us like he does the spools on the spinners. I always feel as if I were part of the machine—the poorest part—and I guess you will, too. There, it's fixed and starting up. Hurry to your place and don't get scared. Sallie's cross, but she can't help it. She used to be one of the 'fainters.' Yes; that's right. Now all there is, is to keep at it till twelve o'clock whistle."

That meant nearly five hours of the steadiest and most difficult labor which Amy had ever undertaken. Yet these others near her, and the crowds of spinners all through the great apartment, appeared to take this labor very easily, and were even able to carry on a conversation amid the deafening noise.

Amy watched so intently, and tried so faithfully to do just what and all that was expected of her that she did, indeed, make a rapid progress for one beginning; and when the welcome whistle sounded, she was surprised to see how instantly every frame was stopped, and to hear Mary saying:—

"If you don't want to go with anybody else, I'd admire to have you eat your lunch with me."

"I'd like to, certainly, but I don't believe I can eat. My head is whirling, whirling, just like those dreadful spools. Isn't it terrible?"

"No, I don't think so. I don't notice them now, except to make them say things. But come along, we have a half-hour nooning. We might have a whole hour, but most of the hands like to give up part of their dinner-time every day and then take the afternoon off on Saturday. The 'Supe' doesn't care, so that's the way we get our 'Saturday-half.' I sometimes wish we worked the other way, but of course we couldn't. If part stops, the other part has to, 'cause every room depends on some other room to keep it going."

"Why, I think that's beautiful, don't you? Like a big whole, and all of us the needed parts."

"No, I don't. I don't see one single beautiful thing about this hateful old mill. At least, I didn't before this morning, when you came."

Amy looked into Mary's face a moment. Then she stooped and kissed it gently. Small though Amy herself was, for her age, she was still taller than her new friend, and felt herself far stronger.

Away in another place Gwendolyn and her mates observed this little by-play, and one girl remarked:—

"Hmm. That settles her hash. If she's going to take up with that horrid Mary Reese, there won't anybody go with her. Not a single girl, and as for the fellows—my!"

To this flirtatious young person to be ignored by "the fellows" meant the depth of misfortune. Happily, however, Amy had never hear the word "fellow," as at present applied, and to do anything for the sake of attracting attention to herself she would have considered the extreme of vulgarity.

Mary guided her to a quiet corner behind some bales, and filling a tin cup with water from a faucet, proceeded to open her own luncheon. Then she watched Amy, who, almost too weary to eat, loitered over the untying of the dainty parcel Cleena had made up. When she at last did so, and quietly sorted the contents of the neat box, she was surprised by Mary's astonished stare.

"What is it, dear? Aren't you hungry?"

"Hungry? I'm starved. But—see the difference. It goes even into our victuals. Oh dear, there isn't any use!" and, with a bitter sob, the mill girl tossed aside her own rude parcel of food and dropped her face in her hands.

Girlhood is swiftly intuitive. The boarding-house lunch which the hunchback had brought was quite sufficient in quantity, but it was coarse in extreme, and meats had been wrapped in one bit of newspaper along with the sweets, so that the flavor of each article spoiled the flavor of all. Yet it was the first time that Mary had rebelled against such an arrangement.

Now it was different. Amy's speech, Amy's manner and belongings, opened before the slumbering ambition of the mill girl a picture of better things, which she recognized as unattainable for herself.

Then she felt again the clasp of firm, young arms about her own neck, and a face that was both smiling and tearful pressed close to her own.

"You dear little girl. I see, I understand. But you've never had a chance to try how I've lived and I've never tried how you do. Let's change. Yes; I insist, for this once. You eat my lunch, and I'll eat yours. It will do Goodsoul's great heart no end of good when I tell her about it, and it will make me comprehend just how life looks from your side. Remember, we're both poor girls together now, and I—insist."

Amy had a will, as has been remarked. So, in a few seconds, the two lunches were exchanged, and for almost the first time in her life Mary Reese knew what it was to feed daintily and correctly.

"It makes me feel as if I was straighter, somehow. And you're a dear, dear girl."

"Thank you, of course it does. I wouldn't like to do anything that hurt my own self-respect, even in such a little thing as eating. But, you see, I had my darling mother. Now I've had to let her go; yet if you'll let me, I'll be so glad to teach you all she taught me. It will be keeping her memory green in just the very way she'd like."

"Teaching isn't all. The difference is born in us."

"Nonsense. Think of Mr. Metcalf. They say he was a foundling baby, and yet he's a gentleman."

"Even if he doesn't speak to you in work hours?" asked Mary, with a mischievous glance that would have surprised her mill mates had they seen it. Already the leaven of kindness was working in her neglected life, and for the moment she forgot to be upon the defensive against the indifference of others.

"Even anything. But, hear me, Mary Reese. Here am I, as poor as poor can be, but determined to succeed in doing something grand. Guess what?"

"I couldn't tell. The whistle will blow again in a minute."

"I'm going to build a Home for Mill Girls, where they shall have all things that any gentlewoman should have. I haven't the least idea how nor when nor where. But I'm going to do it. You'll see. And you shall help. Maybe that's just why God let me come here and be a mill girl myself."

After a pause the other spoke. "It seems queer to hear you say such things. Yet you're not what I call 'pious,' I—guess."

"Don't be afraid. I'm not goody-goody, at all. But it's the most interesting thing mother taught me: the watching how everything 'happens' in life, like a wonderful picture or even a curious, beautiful puzzle. Each part, each thing, fits so perfectly into its place, and it's such fun to watch and see them fit. Yes, I believe that's the key to my coming."

For a moment these girlish dreamers clasped hands and saw visions. The next, a whistle sounded and, still hand in hand, they returned to their frame and to this toil which was part of a far-reaching "plan." On the way they passed "Jack doffer," wearing his most fetching smile, and a new necktie, recklessly disported during work hours for the sole purpose of dazzling the bright eyes of the pretty "new hand."

Unfortunately for his vanity, the "new hand" never saw him, because of those still lingering visions of a Home with a capital H; and oddly enough, the youth respected her the more since she did not. Later on things would be altered; but neither of them knew that then.



CHAPTER XVII.

THE DISAPPEARANCE OF BALAAM.

"Me Gineral Bonyparty, come by!"

The lad in the depths of the cellar vouchsafed no reply. He heard distinctly, and Cleena knew that he did. This did not allay her rising wrath.

"The spalpeen! That's what comes o' takin' in folks to do for. Ah, Fayetty," she called wheedlingly.

Good Cleena had almost as many titles for her "adopted son" as her "childer" had for her. Each one suggested to the simple fellow some particular mood of the speaker. "Gineral" meant mild sarcasm, and when "Bonyparty" was added, there was indicated a need for prompt and unquestioning obedience. "Fayetty" was the forerunner of something agreeable, to which might or might not be appended something equally disagreeable.

Said Hallam, once: "Freely translated, 'Fayetty' stands for ginger cookies, and sometimes the cookies must be earned."

The call came the third time:—

"Napoleon Bonyparty Lafayette Jimpson, come out o' that! Two twists of a lamb's tail an' I'll fasten ye down!"

The reconstruction of Fayette gave Cleena plenty of employment, and in one thing he disappointed her, sorely and continually: he utterly and defiantly refused to work in the mill or elsewhere that would bring in wages. Since Amy had become a daily toiler, this attitude on his part angered the poor woman beyond endurance.

Yet there was not any laziness about Fayette. Nobody could have been more industrious, or more illy have directed his industry. As long as it was possible to work in the ground he had labored upon the barren soil of Bareacre, and those who understood such matters assured the Kayes that they would really have a fine garden spot, when another spring came round.

"Surely, he that makes the wilderness to blossom is well engaged, Cleena," Mr. Kaye had remonstrated once, in his quiet way.

"Faith, yes, master, but till them roses bloom there might be better doin'," she had returned. In her heart she respected Mr. Kaye's judgment less even than the mill boy's, though she veiled this contempt by an outward deference.

To-day was a crisis. For good or ill, Cleena had determined to have the question of wage-earning settled. Either the lad must go to work and bring in something to pay for his keep, or he must "clear himself out."

"D'ye mean it?"

"Yes, avick, I means it! Up with ye, or stay below—for as long as I please."

Fayette threw down his pick and crawled forward through the trench he was digging. The idle suggestion of Hallam had taken firm hold of the natural's mind, and with a dogged persistence, that he showed also in other matters, he had now been daily laboring upon the cross-shaped excavation which was to ventilate the cellars of "Charity House." He had made a fine beginning, and so explained to Cleena, as his mud-stained face appeared above the cellar stairs.

"A beginnin' o' nonsense. When all's done, what use? Sit down an' taste the last o' the cakes me neighbor sent up. Here, you William, keep out o' that! It's for Miss Amy, dear heart. Four weeks an' longer she's been up before light, trudgin' away as gay as a mavis, with never a word that she's bothered. Alanna, Mister Gladstone, what's now?"

A surplus of small Joneses had swarmed over the lower floor of the house on the hill, and their presence was now accepted by Cleena with little opposition, because of the generosity of their parents.

"True for ye, the babies be forever under me foot, but one never comes atop the rise but there's doubled in his little fist the stuff to make him welcome. It may be a cake, or a biscuit, or a bowl o' milk even. It's something for some one."

"The 'some one' is generally the bearer of the loaf, or cake, eh, Cleena?" asked Hallam, who was lingering in the kitchen, gathering what warmth he could from the stove there. The coals provided in the autumn were long ago consumed, and out of the scanty supply she had been able to procure since then, Cleena wasted little below stairs. In the master's studio above a fire was always burning, and if, as he sometimes did, he asked whence the supply, the faithful servant put his inquiry aside with some evasive remark.

He had now work at hand which engrossed him entirely, and to which heat and physical comfort were a necessity. He was painting a life-sized portrait of his wife, and not one of the household could do aught but wish him God-speed on so precious a labor.

Meanwhile, Hallam lay so silent upon the settle beside the stove that neither of them, Cleena nor Fayette, noticed him.

"Here you, William, Beatrice, Belinda, come by! Set yourselves down in the corner, yon. Here's a fine bag o' scraps for you two little maids. Pick 'em over that neat your mother'll be proud; and, William, take out these things from Miss Amy's box till you puts them back as straight as straight. Sure, it's long since herself's had the time, an' he's a smart little gossoon, so he is."

The little girls emptied the bag of pieces on the floor, and sorting them into piles began to roll them into tidy bundles. Along with improving Fayette, Cleena had early set out upon the same lines with the small Joneses. Even William Gladstone, the mite, was already learning to distinguish between soiled hands and clean, and to enjoy the latter.

So now, while she talked, Cleena set the child to take out and replace with exactness the few treasured letters and cards, or papers, which were Amy's own, and kept in her big japanned box.

Once, idly, Cleena observed the child lingering over a square packet, like an old-time letter, sealed with red wax. It was this bit of color which the little one fancied, and she smiled to see his delight in it.

"The blessed baby! Sure, he's the makings of a fine man in him, so he has. Take a look, Fayetty, if yerself would copy yon."

"You'll let that youngster play with your things once too often. He's a hider, Lionel Percival says so."

"Humph! An' what that silly heeram-skeeram says means naught. Now, hear me, me gineral. This ends it. You goes to work, or you goes to play. Which is it?"

"I—I won't."

"Which is it?" repeated Cleena, sternly.

The natural fidgeted. In his heart he was afraid of his self-constituted "mother." He had no wish to return to the drudgery of the mill. He was wholly interested in his cellar-digging. He had heard tales of mining, and in some way he had obtained a miner's lantern. This he fastened to his "parade hat," and wore to lighten his underground labors.

Vague visions of untold wealth floated in his dull brain. Somewhere in the world he knew that other men were digging in other trenches for gold. He had heard the "boys" say so often, and some of them had even gone to do likewise. He had seen gold sometimes in Mr. Metcalf's office safe. Not much of it, indeed, but enough to fire his fancy. All the time he toiled he was looking for something round and glistening, like the coins he had seen. He was not in the least discouraged because he had found none. There was time enough, for he had not much more than begun what he hoped to complete. Yet, as Cleena knew, he had made a considerable opening under the west room and had carried out many barrowfuls of earth. This he had utilized upon his garden, which was almost as interesting to him as his mining.

"Which is it, avick?"

"Must I?"

"Troth, must ye? Indeed, look here." Leaning over the table she spread before her charge's eyes a dilapidated pocket-book. It had been the receptacle for the family funds, but it was now quite empty. Fayette stared hard. Then he whistled.

"You don't say so! All gone? Every cent?"

Cleena nodded. Her face was very grave. It frightened the lad. He glanced toward Hallam, apparently asleep on the settle, and whispered:—

"Where's hers? What she earns?"

"Humph! That little! Well, it's gone. The last week's wage to buy her shoes. Faith, the poor little feet! Steppin' along to her duty with never a turn aside, an' the holes clean through the soles. Oh, me fathers, that ever I should see the day!"

Overcome by her memories of far different circumstances, Cleena bowed her gray head upon her arms above the empty purse and shook in suppressed grief. So faithful was she that she would not have counted even her life of value if by sacrificing it she could have restored unto her "folks" the departed joy and comfort of their house.

Fayette reached over and lifted the purse. He was not satisfied until he had examined it for himself. Then he rose and took the lantern from his hat.

"I'll fetch some," he said briefly, and turned toward the door.

But Hallam had not been so fast asleep as he seemed, and he demanded whither Fayette was bound.

"It's nothin' to worry about, Master Hal. Just a little matter o' business 'twixt me gineral here an' meself. Can't a body wear out her shoes without so much ado?" she asked, thrusting into view her great foot with its still unbroken, stout, calfskin brogan upon it.

Hallam smiled. "You can't deceive me, dear old Scrubbub. It's not you that's wanting new shoes, and if Fayette is going millward, I am going too."

"Master Hal, what for now? An' what'll the master be sayin' if he's wantin' you betimes? Isn't it bad enough to keep him content without Amy, let alone yerself? No, no; go up by. It's warmer in the paintin' room, an' sure a body's still as you can't bother nobody, even a artist."

But the cripple limped across the room and took from a recess his cap and the short top-coat he wore when he rode Balaam. It was as warm as it was clumsy, and gave his slender figure a width that was quite becoming. Like Amy's, his headgear was always a Scotch Tam, and when it crowned his fair face Cleena thought him exceeding good to look upon.

"Arrah musha, but you're the lad for me! An' after all, no matter if the winds be cold, a ride'll do ye fine, an' make the oatmeal taste sweet in your mouth."

"It's time something did. Oatmeal three times a day is a trifle monotonous. Heigho! for one of your chicken pies, Goodsoul."

He was sorry as soon as he said that. Not to be able to give her "childer" what they desired was always real distress to Cleena. So he laughed her regret away, with the question:—

"If I bring home a pair of fowls, will you cook them?"

"Will I no? Fetch me the birds, an' I'll show you. Go on, Fayetty, an' saddle the beast."

But Fayette was not, at that moment, inclined to do this office for the other lad. He had resolved upon a kindly deed, one which involved self-sacrifice on his part, and like many other wiser people he was inclined to let the one generous act cover several meaner ones.

It was his heart's desire to own Balaam. If he took some of the money which the superintendent was keeping for him and gave it to Cleena for the housekeeping, he lessened his chance of obtaining his object by just that much. If he gave Cleena the money, he wanted everybody to understand that he fully realized, himself, how magnanimous he was.

However, in many respects Hallam was his hero, and between the two there had been, of late, a little secret which Fayette was proud to share. Each day he would ask, with extreme caution:—

"You hain't told nobody yet, have ye?"

Commonly the cripple would answer: "No; nor shall I. There's no use."

"Sho! Yes, there is. Read it an' see. If it's in the paper, it's so. Huckleberries! You ain't no more pluck than a skeeter."

Then Hallam would reread the scrap of newspaper he carried in his pocket; and each time, after such a reading, a brighter light shone in the eyes of both boys, and the foundling would observe:—

"It's worth tryin'. I say, it's worth tryin'. I ain't tired yet. Keep her up."

Hallam knew the half-column of print by heart. It had been brought him by Amy, on the day she went to Mr. Metcalf's office. She had asked the loan of the newspaper, and had received it as a gift. She had hurried home, full of enthusiasm, and showed it to Hallam. He had not been enthusiastic, and had apparently tossed the article aside as worthless to him. Amy was too busy to give the matter further thought, and did not know that after she had left the room her brother had read the paragraph a second time, and had then carefully preserved it.

Even now, as they started for the mill, Fayette requested to "hear it again," but Hallam declined.

"It's too cold. And if I don't hurry and do what I set out to, I'm afraid I'll back out."

"Is it somethin' ye hate to do?"

"Yes; it—Don't let's talk about it."

"Just the way I feel. I'd ruther live on one meal a day 'n do it. Once I give it to her, I shan't never see no more of it. Oh, I know her! She's a regular boss, she is."

"Cleena? But she's a dear old creature, even so."

"Oh, I like her. I like her first rate. She's a good cook an' middlin' good-lookin'. I hain't got nothin' again her. They say, to the village, how 't John Young talks o' sparkin' her."

"What? Teamster John? Our Cleena? Well, he'd better not!"

In his indignation Hallam nearly slipped from his saddle. He did let one of his crutches fall, and Fayette picked up that, took the other, and cheerfully "packed" them to the end of their journey.

"Why not? His wife's dead."

"Yes. But—our Cleena! Cleena Keegan! Well, there's no danger of her encouraging him. Between her own 'folks,' yourself, and the Joneses, I think she has all she can attend to without taking in a man to worry with."

The subject was idlest village gossip, but it served to divert Hallam's thoughts from his impending errand, and he arrived at the office of the mill in good spirits. Then he remembered a saying he had heard in the community:—

"All roads lead to the mill," and quoted it for Fayette's benefit.

"That's so. But, say, I hate that old Wingate that's got it now. He licked me when I worked for him. Licked me more 'n once, just because I fooled a little with his horses. I was bound out to him from the poor-farm, an' I run away. He treated me bad. I'm goin' to get even with him some day. You watch an' see."

"Well, here we are. Is this the office? Will you go in with me and help me find the superintendent? I've never been here, you know."

"Huckleberries! Ain't that queer? And Amy comes every day."

Fayette meant no reproach. His thoughts were never profound, but Hallam flushed and felt ashamed.

"That's true. The more disgrace to me. Well, cripple or not, that's the last time anybody shall ever say, truthfully, that my little sister has set me an example of courage and effort. Hurry up. Open the door."

A moment later both lads stood within the little room wherein so many big money transactions took place; and it is doubtful if any speculator coming there had felt greater anxiety over the outcome of his visit than these two whose "operations" were to be of such a modest limit.

"Boss, I've come after my money. I want the whole lot."

"Good day, 'Bony'; good day, Hallam Kaye, I believe."

Hallam bowed, and before his courage could wane, replied:—

"Yes; I'm sorry to interrupt you in business hours, but—will you buy Balaam, Pepita's brother?"

Before the gentleman could answer, Fayette had clutched Hallam's shoulder.

"What's that? Did you come here to sell that donkey?"

"I came to try to sell it, certainly."

"Then I'm sorry I ever touched to help you. I want him myself. I come to get my money a purpose. My money is as good as his. He shan't have it. I'll have it myself."

Mr. Metcalf interrupted:—

"But, 'Bony,' you can't afford to keep such an animal. It would take all your capital to pay for him. Wait. Sometime, if you're industrious, you'll be rich enough to have a horse and carriage. Indeed, I mean it; and, yes, Hallam, I will very gladly buy your burro. I've wanted him ever since Amy let us have Pepita. I—"

"You shan't have him, then. You never shall. I want him, an' I'll keep him. You see!"

The door opened and shut with a bang. Whether purposely or not, it was impossible to say, but in his outward rush the half-wit brushed so rudely past Hallam that he knocked his crutch from his grasp, so that he would have fallen, had not the superintendent caught and steadied the lad to a seat.

"That's 'Bony' all over. As irresponsible as a child and ungovernable in his rage. Yet, never fear; he'll be back again, sometime."

"But—he has taken Balaam. What can I do now?"

Mr. Metcalf walked to the window and looked out. There was a dash of something black disappearing at the turn of the road.

"Humph! That's bad. He's taken the road to the mountains. When his 'wood fit' comes over him, summer or winter, he vanishes. Sometimes he is gone for months."

"And he's taken Balaam with him," repeated the other.

"Yes; he certainly has;" but when the superintendent looked toward Hallam he was startled by the hopeless expression of the lad's fine face.



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE FASCINATION OF INDUSTRY.

"Sit down, lad, and rest. It will not be long before noon, and then I will send for your sister to come here."

"Thank you. Do you think he will stay long, this time?"

"'Bony'? It's just as the fit takes him. There's no accounting for his whims, poor unbalanced fellow. In some respects he is clever and remarkably clean-handed. In fixing parts of the machinery, I would rather have his help than that of most professionals, he is so careful about the minutest details. Yet, of course, it would be out of the question to rely upon him. There's another thing. He's a most excellent nurse. For days at a time, when there's been sickness in the mill village, he has devoted himself faithfully to whoever seemed to take his fancy. His big, ungainly hand has a truly wonderful power of soothing. When I had rheumatic fever, he was the only person I could endure to have in the room with me. His step was lighter even than that of my wife, and I really believe I should have died but for his care."

The superintendent was talking, simply to entertain and divert his visitor from the lad's own present annoyance, but he little knew how full of import his casual remarks were to his hearer.

"Do you mean that he is magnetic? that there is something in the claim he makes of being a 'healer'?"

"Quite as much as in the claim of any such person. There are, of course, some human beings so constituted that they can influence for good the physical conditions of other people. I am very sorry that his present whim has seized him. I would like the burro, and you would like the price of him. Well, all in good time. Meanwhile, if I can help you, please tell me."

"There was only one way in which you could, so far as I know. That was by buying my pet. I—I don't suppose," Hallam continued, with hesitancy, "that there is anything such a—a useless fellow as I could do to earn money here?"

"I am not so sure about that. What sort of work would you like?"

"Any sort."

Mr. Metcalf went into another room and presently returned with some oblong pieces of cardboard. These had a checked surface, and upon these checks were painted or stained partial patterns, designs for the carpets woven in the mills.

"Your father is an artist. Have you learned anything about his work, or of coloring?"

"Something, of course, though very little. I would not be an artist."

"Indeed? But there are artisans whose work is simple, mechanical, and reasonably lucrative. Our designers, for instance, make an excellent living. Do you see these numbers at the sides of the patterns?"

"Yes."

"They are for the guidance of the weavers. The threads of the carpets are numbered, and these numbers correspond. Therefore, the weaver can make his carpet from his pattern with mathematical exactness. We require many such copies of the original design. If you would like to try this sort of work, I will give you a temporary job. The boy who usually does it is ailing, and I have allowed him a vacation. The wages are small, no more than Amy earns, but the work isn't difficult, and is the only thing I have now, suitable for you."

Incidentally the gentleman's eyes turned toward Hallam's crutches leaning against the arm of the chair where he sat; but instead of feeling humiliated by the glance, as the sensitive cripple often did, this casual one fired his heart with a new ambition. He recalled the words of the surgeon, and was no longer angry with them.

"I will be a man in spite of it all," flashed through his brain. Aloud he said:—

"I will be very glad to try the work."

"Very well. When can you begin?"

"Now."

Mr. Metcalf smiled.

"All right. A lad so prompt is the lad for me. But I had imagined another sort of fellow,—not so energetic, indeed."

"I've not been worth much. I've been lazy and selfish; but I mean to turn over a new leaf. I'll try to be useful, and if I fail—I fail."

"But you'll not fail. God never sent anybody into this world for whom He did not provide a place, a duty. You will succeed. You may even get to 'the top,' that roomy plane where there are so few competitors. I want you to count me your friend. I, too, am a self-made man. There are few obstacles one cannot conquer, given good health and determination."

Then once more the employer's gaze rested upon the crutches, and his heart misgave him that he had roused ambitions which could not be realized. The poor cripple was handicapped from the start by his infirmity.

Hallam again saw the expression of the other's face, and again it nerved him to a firmer will.

"Even that shall not hinder, sir; and now if you will explain to me the work, I'll make a try at it right away."

Mr. Metcalf placed the designs upon a sloping table, at one side the office, and Hallam took the chair before it, as requested. Then the superintendent went over the system of numbering the designs, and illustrated briefly.

"Now you try. I'll watch. Go on as if I were not here. If I do not speak, consider that you are working correctly."

Hallam's intelligence was of a fine order, and he had always been a keen observer. Before Mr. Metcalf had finished his explanations the lad had grasped the whole idea of the work, and he took up the pen the gentleman laid down with the confidence of one who understood exactly what he had to do.

"'Knowledge is power,' there is no truer saying," remarked the teacher, watching the tyro's eager efforts. "It's as easy as A B C to you, apparently."

"It seems very simple. I think I would enjoy it better, though, if I could see the application."

"How the patterns are used?"

"Yes."

"Come this way."

Which was not by the shorter one of the stairway on the cliff, up which Fayette had once forced the reluctant Pepita, but around by the sloping wagon track and into the lower rooms of the great building. Already the lad knew most of these by the descriptions his sister had given him, but no description could equal the facts. As she had done, so he experienced that thrill of excitement, as he realized the mighty, throbbing life all around him, of which the wonderful machinery and the human hands and brains which controlled it seemed but parts of one vast whole. His eyes kindled, his cheeks flushed, and, as Amy had done, he forgot in his eagerness over the new scene that others might be observing him and his deformity.

At the weavers' looms he was "all eyes and ears," as one remarked. Seeing the woollen threads stretched up and down, perfectly colored and looking like a greatly elongated pattern, gave him a complete insight of the task for which he had been engaged.

"I thought I understood it before. I think I could not make a mistake now. A mistake would mean disaster wouldn't it?"