So the process went on.

Cylinder after cylinder was blown, opened up, flattened, and annealed. So quickly did the single sheets of glass cool that it was not much more than half an hour from the time they entered the flattening kiln before they came out thoroughly annealed. They were then carried to the warehouse for inspection and the especially fine ones were selected to be polished into patent glass. The sheets were rated as bests, seconds, thirds, and fourths, and their average size was 48 x 34 or 36 inches, although the foreman said that sometimes sheets as large as 82 x 42 or 75 x 50 had been made. These, however, were exceedingly difficult to handle, as they were in constant danger of being broken. The mass of glass was also very heavy for the blower to wield.

"The great advantage of sheet glass over crown glass is that it can be made in large pieces. Of course it is not as brilliant as crown, but it is much more useful," added the workman.

"What is crown glass?" whispered Jean to Giusippe.

"It is a variety of glass manufactured by another process," was the reply. "We do not make it here. Do you remember the bull's eye glass windows we saw in England? Well, each of those bull's eyes came from the center of a sheet of crown glass just where a lump of hot glass was attached so the blower could whirl or spin it from the middle and make it into a flat disc. But, as you can readily understand, a sheet of glass with this mark or defect right in the center will never cut to advantage, and therefore only comparatively small pieces can be got out of it; there is much waste. Yet, as the man says, it has a wonderfully brilliant surface. Now I am not going to let you stay here any longer or we shall not have time to see the part of the factory where I am working. I'm in the plate glass department, and I intend to drag you off to the casting hall this very moment."

Jean laughed.

"Before you go, though, you must understand that plate glass is quite a different thing from these others. It is not blown at all. Instead the melt is poured out on an iron table just as molasses candy is turned out of a pan to cool. You'll see how it is done."

They crossed the yard and entered another part of the works; Giusippe gave the foreman a word of greeting as they went in.

On each side of the great room were the annealing ovens, and down the center of the hall on a track moved a casting table which rolled along on wheels. The pots of molten glass or metal were first taken from the furnaces and carried on trucks to this casting table. Here they were lifted by a crane, suspended above the table, and then tilted over, and the glass poured out.



"For all the world like a pan of fudge!" declared Jean.

Giusippe laughed.

"I guess you would find it the stickiest, heaviest fudge you ever tried to manage," said he.

The instant the mass of soft metal was on the table a roller of cast-iron was passed very swiftly back and forth over it, spreading it to uniform thickness, and at the same time flattening it.

"The thickness of the glass is gauged by the strips of iron on which the roller moves," explained Giusippe to Jean. "These can be adjusted to any thickness. Notice how rapidly the men have to work. The glass must be finished while it is hot, or there will be flaws in it. It is a rushing job, I can tell you."

"But—but you don't call this stuff plate glass, do you?" inquired the girl in dismay. "It does not look like it—at least not like any I ever saw used as shop windows or for mirrors."

"Oh, it is not done yet. But it is what we call rough plate. That's the kind that is used where light and not transparency is needed. You often see it in office doors or in skylights of buildings. To get the beautiful polished plate glass that you are talking about this rough plate must be polished over and over again. But before it can be polished it must first be annealed as rough plate. It goes into the annealing ovens right from this table and comes out all irregular—full of pits and imperfections. No matter how flat the casting table is, or how much care is taken, the surface of the glass after annealing is always bad. If it is to be made into polished plate it must be ground down first with sand and water; then ground smoother still with a coarse kind of emery stone and water; next ground again with water and powdered emery stone. After that comes the smoothing process done with a finer sort of emery and water. Last of all the sheet is bedded, as we call it, and each side is polished with rouge, or red oxide, between moving pads of felt."

"Goodness!" ejaculated Jean. "Do you mean to say they have to go through all that with every sheet of plate glass?"

"Every sheet of polished plate," corrected Giusippe. "Rough plate does not need to be polished or ground down much. It is made merely for use and not for beauty. Sometimes to add strength, and help support the weight of large sheets, wire netting is embedded in them. Wired glass like this was the invention of an American named Schuman and it is used a great deal; the wire not only relieves the weight of the glass but serves the double purpose of holding the pieces should any break off and start to fall. Often, too, insurance companies specify that it shall be used as a matter of fire protection."

"But I should think if plate glass—I mean polished plate," Jean hurriedly corrected her error, "has to be ground down so much there wouldn't be anything left of it. It must come out dreadfully thin."

"The casters have to consider that and allow for it," answered the Italian. "They expect part of the glass will have to be ground away, so they cast it thicker in the first place. A large, perfect sheet of polished plate is quite an achievement. From beginning to end it requires the greatest care, and if spoiled it is a big loss not only in actual labor but because of the amount of material required to make it. Even at the very last it may be injured in the warehouse either by scratching or breaking. It is there that it is cut in the size pieces desired."

"How?"

"With a rule and diamond point just such as is used for cutting sheet glass. The surface is scratched to give the line of fracture and then it is split evenly."

"I should hate to have the responsibility of cutting or handling it when it is all done," Jean observed with a little shiver.

"Well you might. Only men of the greatest skill and experience are allowed to touch the big, heavy sheets. The risk is too great. They turn only the best workmen into the plate glass department."

"But you work here, don't you, Giusippe?"

"I? Oh, I—I'm just learning," was the boy's modest reply.

"You seem to have learned pretty well," said a voice at his elbow.

Turning the lad was astonished to find Mr. Curtis standing just behind him.

"I must own up to being an eavesdropper," laughed the older man. "I couldn't resist knowing whether you were instructing Jean as she should be instructed, Giusippe. Don't worry. I have no fault to find. I couldn't have explained it better myself. You shall have your diploma on plate glass making any time you want it."

Then as the superintendent advanced to speak to him, Mr. Curtis added:

"You had given your pupil a good bringing up, Mr. Hines. He does you credit."



CHAPTER XI

JEAN'S TELEGRAM AND WHAT IT SAID

The winter in Pittsburgh passed rapidly. For Jean it was a happy year despite much hard work at school, German lessons with Fraeulein, and long hours of piano practising. It seemed as if the scales and finger exercises were endless and sometimes the girl wondered which had the more miserable fate—she who was forced to drum the same old things over and over, or poor Uncle Tom who had to listen when she was doing it. And yet as she looked back over her busy days she realized that she neither studied nor practised all the time. No, there was many a good time interspersed in her routine. For example, there was the Shakespeare play at the school, a performance of "As You Like It," in which Jean herself took the part of "Rosalind." This was an excitement indeed! Uncle Tom became so interested that he got out his book and spent several evenings coaching the leading lady, as he called the girl; one night he even went so far as to impersonate "Orlando," and he and Jean gave a dress rehearsal in the library, greatly to Giusippe's delight and amusement. This set them all to reading Shakespeare aloud, and going to a number of presentations of the dramas then being given in the city. To the young people all this was new and wonderful, for up to the present they had been little to the theater.

In the meantime Giusippe was also having his struggles. It was a rushing season at the factory, there being many large orders to fill; the mill hummed night and day and in consequence the scores of glass-makers looked happy and prosperous. No one was out of employment or on half pay, and none of the workmen dreaded Christmas because there was nothing to put in the kiddies' stockings.

With Christmas came Uncle Bob and oh, what a holiday there was then! Was ever a Christmas tree so beautiful, or a Christmas dinner so delicious? Giusippe brought his aunt and uncle to the great house, and in the evening there was a dance for Jean and some of her school friends. Uncle Bob, who was in the gayest of spirits, danced with all the girls; introduced everybody to everybody; and brought heaping plates of salad to the dancers. There seemed to be nothing he could not do from putting up Christmas greens to playing the piano until the belated musicians arrived. The party could never had been given without him, that was certain. It was a Christmas long to be remembered!

And when he left the next morning it was with the understanding that Jean should return to Boston the first of May. Uncle Tom looked pretty grave when he was reminded that the days of his niece's stay with him were numbered; and it was amusing to hear him use the very arguments that Uncle Bob had voiced when Jean had left Boston for Pittsburgh months before.

"It isn't as if the child was never coming back," he told Giusippe. "Her home is here; she is only going to Boston for her vacation. We should be selfish indeed to grudge her a few weeks at the seashore. Pittsburgh is rather warm in summer."

Thus Uncle Tom consoled himself, and as the days flew past tried to put out of his mind the inevitable day of parting.

Then came May and with it a very unexpected happening. Jean's trunk was packed, and she was all ready to leave for the East, when Uncle Tom was taken sick.

"I doubt if it is anything but overwork and fatigue," said the doctor. "Mr. Curtis has, I find, been carrying a great deal of care this winter. It is good to do a rushing business, of course, but when one has to rush along with it the wear and tear on the nerves is pretty severe."

"You don't think he will be ill long, do you?" questioned Jean anxiously.

"I cannot tell. Such cases are uncertain. He just needs rest—to give up work for a while and stay at home. Recreation, diversion, amusement—that's what he wants. Read to him; motor with him; walk with him; keep him entertained. Things like that will do far more good than medicine."

"But—but—I'm—I'm going away to-morrow for the rest of the summer," stammered Jean.

"Away? Humph! That's unfortunate."

"Why, you don't really think I am any use here, do you? Enough use to remain, I mean," the girl inquired in surprise. "Uncle Tom doesn't—you don't mean that he needs me; that I could do good by staying?"

A flush overspread her face. That any one should need her! And most of all such a big strong man as Uncle Tom. The idea was unbelievable. Hitherto life had been a matter of what others should do for her. She had been a child with no obligations save to do as she was told. Her two uncles whom she loved so much had discussed her fate and decided between them what her course should be. Now, all at once, there was no pilot at the wheel. The directing of the ship fell to her guidance. In the space of those few moments, as if by a miracle, Jean Cabot ceased to be a child and became a woman.

"Mr. Curtis is very fond of you, isn't he?" asked the physician. "He will miss you if you are not here, I am afraid. Who else is there in the house to be a companion for him?"

"No one but Fraeulein, and of course she is getting older and is not very strong."

"Unfortunate!" repeated the doctor.

"It is not at all necessary for me to go to-morrow," Jean said quickly. "I can postpone it and stay here just as well as not, and I think it would be much better if I did." She spoke with deepening conviction. "I'll telegraph my uncle in Boston and explain to him that I cannot leave just now."

What a deal of dignity stole into that single word "cannot."

At last there was a duty to fulfil toward some one else—some one who really needed her. Jean repeated the amazing fact over and over to herself. She had a place to fill. She and Uncle Tom had reversed their obligations; he was now the weak one, she the strong.

With a happy heart the girl went back up-stairs.

Uncle Tom was lying very still in bed, his face turned away from the door; but he heard her light step and put out his hand.

"My little girl," he whispered.

Jean slipped her soft palm into his.

"Did I wake you?"

"No, dear. I was not asleep. I cannot sleep these days. Last night I heard the clock strike almost every hour. It has been so right along. I cannot recall when I have had a full night's rest. No sooner do I go to bed than my mind travels like a whirlwind over everything I've done through the day. There is no peace, no stopping it."

"We will stop it, dear. Don't worry, Uncle Tom. The doctor says you are just a little tired, and he is going to give you some medicine that will help you to feel better. Then you are to stay at home and rest for a while. To-morrow you shall have your breakfast in bed and later, when it is sunny and warm, I shall take you for a nice motor ride."

"But—but you forget, girlie, that to-morrow you won't be here."

"Oh, yes I shall. I'm going to stay. There is no law against my changing my mind and not going to Boston, is there?"

Jean smiled down at him.

"I've wired Uncle Bob that I am going to postpone my visit," she added.

A light came into the man's eyes.

"Did the doctor——?"

"No, he didn't. I decided it myself. Do you suppose for a moment I'd leave you just when you are going to be here at home and have some time to entertain me? Indeed, no! Lately you've been so busy that you couldn't take me anywhere. Now you are to desert the office and be under my orders for a while. Oh, we'll do lots of nice things. We'll go off in the motor and see all sorts of places I've wanted to see; and we'll walk; and we'll read some of those books we have been trying to get time to read together. We shall have great fun."

Mr. Curtis looked keenly at the girl for a few seconds.

"Perhaps," he remarked at last, "it won't make much difference to Uncle Bob if you do postpone your visit for a week or two."

"I am sure it won't."

There was a deep sigh of satisfaction from the invalid.

"I'm glad you've decided to stay, little girl. Somehow it would be about the last straw to have you leave now. I'd miss you in any case, of course; but if I have got to be home here and round the house it does not seem as if I could stand it to have you gone."

"I wouldn't think of going and leaving you, dear. Put your mind at rest. I intend to stay right here until you are quite well again."

She bent down and gently kissed her uncle's forehead.

It seemed as if that kiss smoothed every wrinkle of worry from the man's brow.

Quietly Jean tiptoed across the room and drew down the shade; then she dropped into a chair beside the bed and took up a book. For some time she sat very still, her eyes intent upon the page. Then at last she glanced up. Uncle Tom's head had fallen back on the pillows and for the first time in many days he slept.

* * * *

So did Jean Cabot find her summer planned for her. Instead of joining Uncle Bob and enjoying months of bathing and sailing on the North Shore she helped nurse Uncle Tom Curtis back to health. For the breakdown proved to be of much longer duration than any of them had foreseen. The exhausted system was slow in reacting and it was weeks before the turning point toward recovery was reached. During those tedious hours of waiting Jean was the sole person who could bring a smile to the sick man's face or rouse in him a shadow of interest in what was going on about him. "Her price was above rubies," the doctor said. She was better than sunshine or fresh air; she was, in fact, the only hope of bringing the invalid back to his normal self.

And when those grim days passed and Uncle Tom began to be better, how he clung to the girl—clung to her with an affection which neither of them had felt before. It was the realization of his dependence that made Jean send to Uncle Bob that letter, the last lines of which read:

"I feel more strongly than I can tell you, dear Uncle Bob, that for the present my place is here. Uncle Tom needs me and cannot do without me. You have Hannah to help you keep house and you can get on; but he has nobody but me. When he is quite strong again I will come to Boston, but until I do I am sure you'll understand that although I cannot be with you, I love you just the same.

"Jean."

A reply came back by wire.

"Goodness!" exclaimed Jean as she opened the long telegram. "I hope nothing is the matter. Uncle Bob never sends telegrams. He must have been reckless to spend his money on such a long message as this."

"You are doing just right. Stay as long as needed, but remember Boston home waits whenever you wish to come. Hannah has proved inadequate housekeeper. Have new one. Miss Cartright and I were married in New York to-day.

"Uncle Bob."

Jean's reading stopped with a jerk. She was speechless. So great was her joy, her surprise, that not a word would come to her tongue.

Then Uncle Tom remarked dryly:

"I guess your Uncle Bob was a bit reckless about the time he sent that wire. The only wonder is the telegram wasn't twice as long."

Giusippe was the next to find his voice.

"Well!" he ejaculated. "And we never even dreamed it! At last, Jean, you've got your wish. Your good fairy has given you an aunt!"

"And such an aunt!" Jean added.



CHAPTER XII

JEAN AND GIUSIPPE EACH FIND A NICHE IN LIFE

During Uncle Tom's illness and slow recovery Giusippe became the messenger between Mr. Curtis's residence and his office. It was, however, weeks before there was any link connecting the two. But as health returned there came to the invalid a gradual revival of interest in affairs at the glass works. Nevertheless the doctor was a cautious man and at first permitted only the slightest allusions to be made to business. Later, as strength increased, Mr. Curtis was allowed to look over at home mail, papers, and specifications and put his signature to a few important documents, and since Giusippe was almost constantly at the house what was more natural than that he should become the go-between? Mr. Curtis dropped into explaining to the boy from time to time many confidential matters and directing him as to what he wished done regarding them. The young Italian, as his employer soon found, was quick to grasp a situation and could be relied upon to fulfil instructions to the letter and without blundering. Such a person was of inestimable value during those days of convalescence.

So it came about that Giusippe spent less and less of his time in his own department in the glass works and more and more in Mr. Curtis's private office. Before long, boy though he was, he had quite a complete comprehension of the older man's affairs and proved himself most useful to the head of the firm who was fighting his way back to health. It was so easy to say:

"Regarding this letter, I wish, Giusippe, you would see that such and such a reply is sent. Look it over yourself before it goes out to be sure that the stenographer has correctly caught my idea."

Or:

"Go and tell Levin of the sheet glass department that I want these orders filled before any others are shipped. Attend to it yourself, and make certain he clearly understands."



To drop any portion of the detail of his mighty business upon younger shoulders, or in fact upon any shoulders at all was a thing which, but a short time before, Mr. Curtis would have considered impossible. But now, to his surprise, he found himself actually doing it to an amazing extent, and discovered that no calamity resulted in consequence. On the contrary it was a positive relief to have a bright, strong, eager boy lift a part of the burden which had become so heavy for the older man to bear alone. For Giusippe possessed that rare gift seldom found in the young and often lacking, even, in elder persons—he could hold his tongue. He never prattled of Mr. Curtis's affairs; never boasted of his knowledge of the innermost workings of the firm. He did as he was told, gave his opinion when asked, and kept whatever information was doled out to him entirely to himself.

Hence it followed naturally that when Uncle Tom began going to the works for a few hours each day he took Giusippe with him, and when he came home left the boy to see carried out the instructions he gave. Slowly the office force began to defer to the youthful Italian.

"Did Mr. Curtis say anything about this matter or that?"

"Was such and such a price the one Mr. Curtis wished quoted?"

Having discussed many of these very matters with his employer Giusippe was usually ready with an answer or he could get one. For it was he alone who was sure to receive a telephone reply from the Curtis residence; he was the only one who knew at just what time of day Mr. Curtis could be reached, and whether he was well enough that morning to be disturbed. Men desiring interviews with the head of the firm soon found themselves inquiring for Mr. Cicone and asking him if possible to arrange things so they could have a few words with Mr. Curtis. Giusippe was the recognized buffer, the go-between who guarded the capitalist from annoyance and intrusion of every sort.

"You talk with this fellow, Giusippe," Mr. Curtis would often say. "Tell him—well, you know—get him out of the office. You can do it politely. Tell him I'll give him a hundred dollars toward his hospital, but keep him out of my way."

Then Giusippe would laugh.

He had begun to understand that the life of a rich man was no easy one.

Scores of persons came to see Mr. Curtis: persons applying for business positions; persons begging money for various good causes; customers; salesmen; men wanting newspaper interviews. From morning until night the throng filed in and out of the office. Up to the present Mr. Curtis had been content to remain in the security of his inner domain and rely on his stenographer to fill many of the gaps. But with illness a change had come and it was to Giusippe that most of these duties fell.

And yet, strangely enough, nothing had been further from the older man's original plan than to transform this foreign-born lad into his private secretary. But so it came about.

"I seem to just need you all the time, Giusippe," he declared one day. "When you leave the house and return to your uncle's I am always discovering something I meant to ask you and having to send the car after you; and the moment you go back to your own job in the casting department, without fail some matter comes up and you have to be telephoned for. It is no use to try to get on without you. I need you all the time. I need you here at home and I need you at the office."

Giusippe smiled.

"I'm glad if I can be of help to you, sir."

"You are of help; you are more than that—you are—— See here, what do you say to throwing up your position at the works and coming into my private office as my—well, as my general utility man? I've never had a secretary—I've never wanted one; and if I had I never before have seen the chap I'd trust with the job. But you are different. You're one of the family, to begin with. Moreover, you've proved that you can be trusted, and that you have some common sense. What would you take to move into your room up-stairs for good and all, and live here where I can get hold of you when I want you? Are you so wedded to your aunt and uncle or to your work in the factory that you would be unwilling to make the change?"

A flush suffused the boy's face.

"If you really think that I could do for you what you want done, Mr. Curtis——"

"I don't think, I know!"

"Then I'd like to come, sir."

"That's right! It will be a weight off my mind. The doctor says that for some months I must still go easy. You can save both my time and my strength. I like you and I believe you like me; that is half the battle in working with any one. We will send to your uncle's for your trunk and whatever else you have."

"There isn't much else but some books," answered Giusippe. "I have been buying a few from time to time as I could afford them."

"Box them up and send them over. Send everything. This is to be your future home, you understand. And by the by, we'll give you that other room adjoining your bedroom. You will need a bit more space. I will have a desk and some book-shelves put in there."

"Thank you, sir."

"We'll call that settled, then. It is going to be very helpful to have you right here on the spot. It is the person who aims to be of service who is really valuable in the world. Look at Jean. In her way she has been doing the same thing that you have. When she found I was in a hole and needed her she gave up her vacation in the East without a murmur. I sha'n't forget it, either. Come in, missy. I'm talking about you."

Jean, who had paused on the threshold of the room, entered smiling.

"You caught me at just the right moment, little lady. I was slandering you," went on Mr. Curtis. "I was saying to Giusippe that I never again can get on without you two young persons. Why, this old house was quiet as the grave before you came into it. I cannot imagine how I ever existed here alone all these years. The piano wasn't opened from one end of the year to the other, and when I unlocked the door and came in there wasn't a single sound anywhere. As I look back on it I guess I spent about all my time at the Club. But since you came it has been different. I've liked it a whole lot better, too. Now I feel as if I really had a home."

Jean bent down and kissed him.

"When I get older," she said, "I mean that you shall have even a nicer home. Fraeulein will be an old lady soon, Uncle Tom, and will not be able to take care of things as she does now. Then I'm going to ask her to teach me to market and to keep house. If you are to make Giusippe your secretary it is only fair that you should give me a position, too. I'll be your housekeeper. You'll see what a good one I shall make after I've learned how. I should love to do it. A girl—a really, truly girl, Uncle Tom, can't help wanting to keep house for somebody."

"No more she can, dear, and she ought to want to, too. It is her work in the world to be a homemaker—the one who touches with comfort and with beauty the lives of those about her. You shall be housekeeper for Giusippe and me, little girl, and shall make out of these four walls a real home. That is what your new Aunt Ethel is to do for your Uncle Bob."

"I know it," answered Jean softly. "Even Uncle Bob couldn't get on without some one to look after him, could he?"

"No," answered Mr. Curtis, "and it is fortunate he has found some one if you are to be my housekeeper. If he makes any trouble we'll just remind him that it was only your summers that you were to spend with him. Your winters belong to me."

"I don't believe he will quarrel about it," was Jean's answer. "He won't need me now, and he will understand that you do."

"I sure do," replied Uncle Tom, drawing the girl to his side. "I need both of you—my boy and my girl."



The stories in this series are:

THE STORY OF COTTON THE STORY OF GOLD AND SILVER THE STORY OF LUMBER THE STORY OF WOOL THE STORY OF IRON THE STORY OF LEATHER THE STORY OF GLASS THE STORY OF SUGAR

THE END