The Breton Mills

Jopyrighted by the Anthor, and published by arrangement -mth kim. CHAPTER XVL WEIT WILL THBT BRINO? Days passed till tbey made weeks, imc weeks till they made months, and no changa carne for the milis or for the lives of th creatures who worked within their grim walls, except the ehange frora poor to more poor. His anquaintaiices saw new expreawons on his face - the open, boyish look had gouO, au his roice had uew tones of decisión ; hú ste] had grawn filmer and his eyes met a glanoe with a new steadiness. Oiie moniing the three men who had been once on the flre escape eommittee met ia the doorway of No. 2 mili, restored after tho Uro. They had lef t their work for a breath ot fresh air. "He is closer than hisfathcr; hesoritnps and saes like a poor cuss try ing to support a famiJy on $5 the week. What show is there for usV' "Ye'U mind it's all jist as I told ye, BUI Rogers," suggested Graves, the comfort of '1 told you so' bcing left to him out of the general wreek. "Jist as I told ye that night more'u a six month ago in front of old Breton's. As soon as the lad feels his Oats that's the last of his kind heart." "The boy's had hard luck since then," said Rogers, handling his pipe out of old force of habit. ."P'r'aps he's punishin' us for it. It seems so strange somehow his changüí1 all so sudden." " 'Taint that," said Graves, as he turned to go back to work, and then lingering a moment longer; "It is the uatur' of a man and crops out as sure as he gets his swing. There ain't a one of us but would niake a meaner rich man (ban him. It comes easy to bo a labor reformerand radical as longos a fellow is poor, and it's just as easy for a man to talk beautif ui if he ain't looked to to do notliing. But it makes a man drunk wheu he feel3 the reina in his hands, and himnothin' but aman of the same stuff as the rest on us. Look at Curran now; how much better'n the rest is he? He deserted us at the most critical moment. Somethiu' made him throw us up as if we had all of a sudden sickeaed on hia stomach. We're poor stuff, all on us, boys. I never seen a finer feller than that Cnrran, but he's forgot all about the wrongs and rights he used to holler so purty about. There's no chance for us in any man's mercy ; we must depend on ourselvos." At this very moment Philip Broto waa pressüig tho little biass bell on his ccMiating room table. For an answer his paymaster came in with his pen, wet f rom the ink, in his hand. "Do we pay onr help enoughï" A thousand eager voices would have sbuuted a no to him that would have shaken the foundations of stone, but Mr. Jennings, the paymaster, put his pen behind his ear, teok it down, looked keenly at it, then in surprise. at the young mili owner. "We can get 1,000 as good for tho same, if that is what you mean."' Ah, what chance have the poor milis people, when tho young master choo es 3jch advisers as this? "No," said Philip, slowly. "It isnt oxactly what I mean; can we raiso the wagesf' "Can you; why yes, I suppose you can step right into the milis and give a $100 bilí to every hand. But you couldnt afford to do that thing long, and I don' t think it woold do anybody any good. I wouldn't assnmo to advise you, sir, but why not just as well go up street and insist on paying a faney price for y onr flour?" "Butidon't tliey find it hard to live on what we give them ? And what a lif e it is at that," suggested Philip, sadly. Apparently he had not quite forgotten them. "No doubt, no doubt l"repeated the paymaster with the querulousness of his class, "but is tbere any sense in putting in your or my fiat? You can't makè a ninety cent laborer worth a dollar and a quarter Uy giving it to him. You insult him and damage business by making it all uneertain with the gratuitous element" "I see you don't believe in benevolence, my dear Jennings," and Philip smiled curiously. "Yes, I do, for sick people and paupers, but if you don't want to make paupers of eyerybody you ninstn't" "But I am not a pauper, and I never earnod a penny in my life till a few months ago." Philip's eyes flashed at a sudden revelation. "But, ah - but that is different. Drop that then. To make our cloth there are a numbei' of expenses; there is the mili and the machinery, the money locked up in fabrics and material. These are fixed ; you don't think it your duty to iiay extra prices for raw material, nor make a gratuity with every dollar you spend on machinery, no matter howr poor the man that sells to you. Now comes another element, labor. That should be as fixod as the rest and all calculations bastid on its moi'kct price. When you gi to market with your eloth you dont ask any gratuity, nor does the buyer claim any; the price isfixed better than the caprice oL a moment coiüd fix it. T':e element of labor enters into tüo oost. The difforenea bv-itn-eeii the cost and prioe is your proflt. If labor stands you in its raarket price your profit wül reward youi" efforts, and it will pay you to keep up your milt. If you paid liigher wages proflts would be small; you would give up your entorprise and all would suffer." "I didnt know you could be so eagor. But supposing they teil me my profit is too large, that my labor pays me so well I oughfc to make it ap to them." The young propriotor was looking musingly out of tho wiudovr where the aututnn wind was chaeiag the russet laaves in savage glee. Mr. Jenniugs, the paymaster, had reached tho door, but waited a moment to clinch his argument. "Then if you lost money your help ought to contribute. But it might not be at all their fault that you lost, any more than it is to their credit you succeed. Their labor in quantity and quality would be justthesame. What reason in changing its valuatiout Ho, I am sure there is but one way, to raeaswe the value of your labor as you do ererything else, by what it will bring." "Not quite everytbiug,"Raid Philip ; bat he said it so low the argumentative Jennings dij not hear ifc. All he heard was just as he was elosing his door: "Flease send in the overseer of No. l weave room." It was but a few moments, during which Philip did not move from his seat, bef ore the overseer came in, stroking his apron deforentially. "Mr. Bright, the men and girls complata; they say they ought to be paid by the day instead of by the pïece." "Which ones complain? The lazy ones, I guess. Why surely, Mr. Breton, it wouldn't be right to pay the best weaver and the poorest the same." "Why not?" asked Philip, with unchanged features watching the look of astonishment that shone ou the raan's .round fat face. "Why not, if vvo paid them all the highest pricef "W'oll sir, it wouldn't be a month before bad and good wo-uld all be worth about the samo, and that as little as the poorest of them. It would be a poor way to eneourage them to be smart." "Does Graves work in your room?' "Yes, but he is just going out for this morniu' - h Ls" "Send him in if youcan find him." Philip rose tg his feet now, and was walking the room impatiently when John Graves slouched In. He turned on him as if ho was going to do violence to his visitor, but it was only a question he hurled at him. "What do you think ought to be changed in the mili? Speak up now, aud let me know your miud." "I tliink we work too hard for our pay, then," drawled the laborer, but his niind was in an ur.usually excited condition. "That is because the public want such goods as ours so cheap." "Tbere's other things to cut on besides labor forever aud ever. Oh, no, yo can't biry poor cotton, it would show ia the cloth; ye can't save on machinery, It would spoil yer sales; but if we earders and weavers and spinners be cut, it cfou't leave a mark on the cloth. But it leaves deep gashes in our hearts and joys, you bo sure." Graves looked at the young man to see if he might go on, but he could not read his master's face. He hesitated a moment and then he continued. ' 'here aiut a poor bent girl in the mili but aiight live a life so happy it would make a strong man cry to think of it. We are of mor 3 account than your machinery. No beltin' or patent self acting springs could do our work ; it takes immortal souls, and intellects in the image of God to do it. It's the same sort of work you do, and compare what the tvvo of us gets. We aint fairly paid till we gets, tho weakest of us, a taste of the sweet things in this world we have longed for so long. I don't care what yer wise book men says." Was the young proprietor angry, he stood so grave and still? What a change! Time was when pity would have shone on every line of his face. But he might have boen a statue for all appearance of melting in him uow. "I pay you the market price, as much as the other nuil owners." Wel], God have merey ou his poor children, if Philip Breton could make that excuse! The man sat down without an invitation, aud leaned his brawny elbows on the table. "Now see here, you told mo to speak rny mind, and I am agoin' to. We are poor; we ain't got nothiu'; we can't lay back and wait for our price. We want somethin' to eat today; we come to you for work; we must have work, if it only eams us a loaf of bread. Is it right, then, to value us at what we can be got for? If we could haggle with ye, and hang off the way a little ready cash Iets a man do, there might be some sense in it. But you never let us get enough ahead for that. It's work or go Imngry with us. The poorer we gets, the tighter ye can squeeze us, and I sometimos wonder why ye gives us as much as ye do. I s'pose a man might live on a little le.. And it's all business, as ye say." Philip had seated himself, but he said uothing. Ho had given the man the privilege of his tongue, and he did not seem disposed to stop him. "Is the right price of a thing what a man U give for iti If they had the money, men would give $1,000,000 for a breath of air, wheu they're stifled. Would it be right to Dump off the air, and then let it on at $1,000,XX) a breathing? If you -was drowning, you'd give $1,000,000 to be saved if it was only to hold out a pole to yer. Is that a fair price for holdin' out a pole! We're starvin' unless we can get a bite to eat. Is it any more right to bargain with us for a life of ïard work, for just enough to live on? A man wants somethin' more than food. He wants a send his children to school, to get a loafin' ïour now and then, to make himself somehin' besides a brute. He wants - ho wants some such things and chances as you have. Why, squire, we're all men trgether." The man's eyes looked aeross at Philip with a vague wistfulness, as if he were thinking of ;he beautiful possibüities of a life so far all drudgery and want. "But what is there to do?" exelaimed Philip in an impatient tone that put to flight all the workman's foolish fancies. The young man's heart seemed changed to flint. "You don't want to be objects of charity, do you?" John Graves 6traightened his arms along ;be table; then he stood up. "Charity! Well, no, not such charity as ieks a creature up today as soft as a baby, and drops him to-monow like a dog. But if payiu' yer help enough of yer gain so they can know what life Ls - if that is charity, as rou cali it, give it to us. Ye needn't be so irecious fraid of hurtin' the laboring classes, is they cali 'em, by treatin' 'em too well. They're sinkin' every day lower and lower, and lots of fellows in specs keep a warnin' ■Ou not to spoil 'em, not to hurt their pride, or break their spirit by givin' 'em something. As if kinduess ever hurt any human soul. íot tiiat I would cali it charity ; they earns very mite yel ever give 'em." "But if the milis or employers don't make such gains as you seem to take for grauted" "If there ain't money made, why, nobody an find no fault not to get big pay. All I mean is wheu money is made, and that's jretty often, we ought to have some share n it." "Don't go, John, I want to ask you" "I must; I asked out for today," and the .oor closed aftor the man. For quite a while after his ' last visitor had gons, Philip sat with his eyes flxed on the door knob in intense abstraction. Was he angry at the audacity of tlie common laborer? Wheu he nished back his chair and rose to kis feet, unning his hands through his hair, he made oneexclamation: "flow blind." But whom he meant, whether his class the laborers, did not appear from bis tone or from the bitter smile on his lips. John Graves would have told in a moment that the young proprietor meant no good to his help. The man had had a glimmer of hope that Philip Breton might nly be waiting for an opportunity, but this nterview had dispelled it from bis mind. It was some little time afterwards that hilip left his counting room and made his way up the street. He was dressed in somerest black, and his silk hat was subdued with a wido band of crape. But his dress was no more melancholy than his face. Vben under pressure of business, one would not hare noticed it so especially, but the instant he was thrown back upon himself, his 'ace became as sad and hopeless as the face of he most wretchod laborer in his mili. He was tasting the most bitter dregs in life, he hought. What soul could be more crushed ihan bis? The time was when it would have een impossible for him to see a human creaure suffer without a thrill of syuipathy. It would have seemed a cruel and uunatural troke of fortune, which it was for him to revent or cure. But he had learned better, ie thought. Buffering was common to all; ihere was uo good of trying to patch up this ife or that; the terrible disease was forever at work. Conditions made but little differnce ; rich and poor, high and low, agonized ogether over some fonn of brokon hope, ome un-iutistied hunger. The chapel door stood open, and he stopped and looked in. It was here Bertba and bo were to have beeu married. And it would have been before tbis - but now. Ho saw tbe place where tbey would have stood together. The cburch was empty and he walked softly in, as if afraid of disturbing the ghosts of his deaü hopes, who haunted yet, perhaps, the sacred spot thoy gloriñed in nil the dreamsof his early manhood. Ho walked wearily up the echoing aisle and threw himstlf into a seat. He bowed bis head upon the back of the pew in front of him. Had he no sliame to come tú the rescue of his broken heart? would he grieve fcrever over a woman that had become another raan's wifei She had called on the laws of the land for her protection; he had no right to even think of her now. She was shut away from him forever. It had become a sin for him now to long for her, though she had been so nearly his own wüe. There was no place in the world for unmated lovers like him. If she had not married that man! How strange that he had heard nothing of that tnarriage; her note had not mentioned it, and no oue had spoken of it since Why, his baiief in her purity wasso absolute he had not even thought to question her marriage, and now it was like a guilty thing, that hc permitted hiraself to entertain for a moment terrible fears. What vengeance would be ster .1 and relentless enough for him who had wrec eed the noblest womanhood in the world, wh ) had sullied a purity like an angel's, and iusulted a sacred dignity like Bertha's? Oh, it coiüd not be; no man on earth could have been so bold, so impious. How wild his imagination had become. "Oh, I didn't know but it was young Breton and that Bertha Ellingsworth that was going to be married." Two graceless women had come in and seated themselves in a neighboring pew. Philip had been thinking so intensely uritü now that an earthquake would hardly have disturbed him. "That'U never be," giggled the other; "you dou't say you didn't know she eloped with that Curran feUow, though it's been keptprettystill?" "Do teil!" PhUip shuddered. Why were creatures like these permitted to touch names like Bertha's? "Married another chap, eh? Well, young Breton never was much for looks, anyhow." "ilarriedl" Philip started at her tone. "Who said sho was married? The shoe's on the other foot. She aint married at all. Handsome fellowlike him has a wife in every town, such as they be. That proud minx is only one 011 'em." How theyrolled the shameful story, like a sweet raorsel under their tongues, as if it relieved the blackness of their contemptible souls, that ono woman more had singed her angel wings in the pitiless flame of disgrace. Philip had struggled to his feet. The women blushed like fire and tried to look unconscious, but he did not oven glance at them as he moved down the aisle. He could not see very wel]. Was the chapel full as it seemed? and was that an usher in white kids who was coming toward him and saying: "Just one minute more ; the bridal couple are just coming in." Bolt upright he sat where he had been guided, and saw as in a dream a white phantom of a woman it seemed and a black shadow of a man go 'by. "Married! who said she was married? Ah! it was horrible! Perhaps they two, those women fiends, were all that knew the shameful secret. Would it do any good to pray them for the niercy of God to keep it? Would money hire a woman to keep a disgrace that had fallen on a fair sister's name?" "Aren't you going to salute the bride?" smiled an acquaintance. "This is the marriage of Labor and Capital at last." He bad perpetrated his witticism a dozen times at least, and this was the first hearer who had not laughed. Jane Graves and Silas Ellingsworth, Bertba's father - were they mad or was he?" "I am ill," he muttered incoherently, as he pushed his way almost roughly out. CHAPTER XVII. THE NEW STOCK COMPAXY. The terrible seeds of suspicion sown in Philip Breton's mind bore the bitterest fruits through the dreary winter months. No efforts of his will, nor course of reasoning could comfort him. For a moment he might find relief, but his torment would only return af resh. Humanity are slow to believe good of fellow creaturen, but nothing seemed too bad to be trae. He thought it might have calmed him to have been assured even of the worst. He believed that' he might despise the woman he had elevatcd to thehighest pinnacle of his ideal temple of womanhood, if she had made so little of the most sacred gift of God. But it would have been a vielence to his feelings to inquire of tho3e who must know. Her father mast know, but his smiling face will reveal nothing, and his very reserve was peopled with horrors for Philip. His wife Jane must know, too, but he could not bear to think of the malicious pleasure she would take in detailing the shameful story to him. She would saté her hate in his misery. But what if it were not a shameful story? Still he could not form his lips to ask. The humiliation of such a question from him, a disoarded lover, about her at whose feet he had been proud to sit, shocked him into silence. He even dreaded lest they might speak to him of her, although it had been months since he had heard Bertha's name once breathed. One evening at the very close of the winter, Philip Breton called a meeting of his help, and the old market hall was packed from door to platform. Reporters were planted by their tables, to catch every word of the mysterious proceedings. Represèntatives from all the factories in the country elbowed the crowd for their three feet of standing room, eager to learn some new device for making money out of their help as good as the other. But the great audience was strangely silent. It knew not what to expect. Perhaps the economical mili owner was going to announee a new reduotion in their wages; everybody said he was reducing everywhore. The feeling in their hearts was more of fear than hope, and it was a look of piteous terror, almost, that they cast at the slight form in black, that came forward on the platform. They remindod Philip of a flock of frightened sheep that had never had a shepherd. Then he thought of a great army massod before the smoking carinon mouth, au army that had never had a general. He saw they feared him. "I have been for a long time trying to think of somo way to make your lives more fair for you, and yet bo fair to myself and my class. I have been cutting on expenses to make the whole business machinery as economical as I knew. Now, at last I am ready to take you into my confldence and make you a proposal. " There was a stir in the great audience, as if every man changed his position at the same moment, so as to be sure not to lose one precious word of the new gospel. "I cannot feel that I ought to give you anything. And I cannot see that it would be reasonablo to pay more wages than others pay; that is, than you have now." A hush had fallen upon the people like death. Thero was no hoje for them, then. Still the speaker went on: "But if your labor is profitable to me, so that I eau pay you your price, and pay my other expenses, and pay me for the time I give to the business what such service as I do is paid elsewhere, and then have somethlng beeides" The reporters dropped their pens in astonment; was the manmad? "I am disposed to think that you have oarned a share in it." He paused to catch his breath, and one conld havo heard a pin f all in that crowded room. "My capital should be allowed for, too. In a word, I propose to divide the profits of my mili, after all expenses are paid, into two equal parts hereaíter, one for labor, yours and mine, and one for the interest on my money. The part which belongs to labor will be distributed aecording to the worth of each one's year's work. The one that earns the largest year's pay will have the largest peT cent. of that dividend. We shall all be stoekholders together, each with a share large or small according to the value of his work." The building treinbled with he roar of applause that went up, and it wss eeveral moments before PhJip could make himseli heard again. He had thought there waa nothing left in his life, with love gone out of it, but as he stood that moment with the glad shouts of the poor ringing in his ears, and feil he had led them out of bondage, his heart thrilled with a proud joy that was almost ectasy. His wealth had brought him a happiness that made even a life like his worth living, had conferred on him a glorious sense of the dignity of manhood which lifted him as on wings. They must listen while he explained the terms of his plan more fully. He motioned y a dozon boys and took a printed sheet of paper from the pile of similar sheets which he ordered distributed among the workmen. He then read aloud the following from the paper in his hand: The first divided will be distributed Aug. 1 for the year ending July 1. The surplus is $200,000; 100,000 is set apart as the allowance for capital invested, which lea ves f 100,000, to be distributed to the labor in proportion to the wages or salary earned by each. The wholo amount of wages and salaries earned in the milis was about $3(50,000. Therefore the rate per cent. of dividend is about 27 7-10 to be calculated on the wages or salary of each man, woman and child as shown by the paymáster's book for the past year. Por example, the man whom th'e pay roll shows to have earned 300 for his year's work, will receive 27 7-10 per cent. on $300 in addition. or about $83.10 as his dividend. The paymaster, who received a salary of 3,000, will receive about $544, and as manager worth a salary of $5,000, I shall receive more than twice the dividend of the paymaster. Certain restrictions will be imposed. First, only one-half of the anuual dividend will be in cash, for it would hurt the interests of the mili to withdraw so mucb from the business. The other half will be in stock, which will draw dividends as the rest of the capital. Second, stock cannot be transferred except to operativos, but will be redeemed at the counting room, after notice, when holders leave the milis, as stock will yield dividends only while holders work in the milis. Holders of stock may hold meetings and choose a committee to examine the books of the company , bef ore the annual distribution of dividends. When Philip Breton, sat down a noisy hum of voices followed as the people read and commented upon the prospectus. The figures looked anything but dull to them. The bright possibilities that came up before their imaginations as they read were such as no gentle cadenee of poetry could have given them. Apparently they would never have tired of reading the wonderful words of hope and good cheer over and over, except that the outer door swung open and a tal] man's form entered. Philip Breton from the platform saw it and the pride sickeued on his heart. The crowd about the door passed the whisper around, and it was hardly one short minute when the building shook again with cheers as they shouted the name of Curran. Yes, it was he who pushed his way well into the room, and then stopped and took one of the printed sheets, as if he were unconscious of their cheering, and read till his face, that had looked so stern and terrible, softened like a child. Then he mounted a settee for his platform and uncovered his head with a new grace that became him as well as his strength. The old bitterness had gone from his lips ; it had given place to a touching sadness that sobered every face that was turned toward him. "He means to deal well by you ; hc wants to make you ehareholders in your work." Philip had risen excitedly to his feet. The sight of the man who had been with Bertha, who came perhaps but this instant from the woman he had wronged so terribly, was at first almost maddening to him. Ah, how grand and beautiful he was, with his deep mighty chest and shoulders, and his limbs' like pillare of some temple. There were no laws for such men as he; the holiest and purest of women love to make themselves base and comruon things to win smiles from his proud eyes, and men forget their vengeance, and only reinember how small and mean they seem before him. But who could look at his melancholy face and the calm dignity that rested upon him always, and believe he could be vile? Yet perhaps nothing was vile or low to him, and even sin was glorified in his eyes when it suited his caprice tosin. Philip, had come to the very edge of the platform and beckoned a friend to him. "Do you see the man talking - the man with the auburn hair curling about lús neck? no, dont look vet;" his voice was husky with excitement. "Get behind him while he is talking and stop him before he goes out. I must see him and speak with him ; I would rather $10,000 than lose him. Quick, now." As Philip sat down again and watched his friend tryiug to make his way through the close packed crowd he heard Curran's voice .igain. What was there changed in it? It had lost its old ring, there was a queer drag in it sometimes, and when he used to raise his voice till every nerve tingled for sympathy, he soemed now to let it fall, and his long, sonorous sentences died down at the end like a muffled bell. "If others were like him," he was saying, "the reform I would die for would come soon, would be upon us." How slow his friend moved. Philip actually hated the people who were too stupid to get put of his messenger's way. Had Curran nniehed, was this all that was left of his eloquence? Yes, he was stepping down and moving toward tht door. Philip's friend was almost there, the man must not escape thus, and plunge agaiu with the woman whose life he had blastöd into the obscurity he seemed to love. Philip leaped to his feet and almost shouted to the people. All turned their faces expectantly toward him, Curran with the rest his pale worn face. Philip's friend was come almost to him now. If Curran could only be detained for one moment more. "It will of course be for the interest of all of you," he knew he was talking weakly, but it was no matter, "to earn the most wages you can, to lose the fewest duys, to turn off the most piece work." Of couz-se, he spoke too stupidly ; Curran turned on his heel and moved toward the door. Almost instantly then Philip Breton gave a sudden short bow to the audience and disappeared back of the platform. He bounded down the narrow stairs, four at a time, and rushed around to the front of the building like one mad, to stare for a moment in the faces of the escaping crowd. Thea wilder than ever at the thought that Curran might have gone out among the first, he ran back and iorth after one group and another, but all in vain. Then he forced himself to stop and think, and forthwith made inquiries for Curran's boarding place. He reached the place at last and ran breathlessly up the stairs. In anotlier moment he would know the truth if it kiUed him to bear it. He must remove the poisonous shadow of suspicion that was polluting all the holiest precincts of liis nature. Certainty was better far, for the nerves can brace themselves against the clcarly deflned features of ever so bideous a monster; far better certainly than this crawling slimy terror that made him ashamed of a manhood that could cherish it. He dared ask CuiTan for the truth, he did not shrink from it. If the man were innocent he might strike him down for the insult to the purity of his wife. Philip thought such atonemint would seem just and proper. But if he were guilty, ah, if Bertha was guilty through him what death was terrible enough for his penalty ! A portly woman, witli the unmistakable expression of the expeotant boarding mistress on her face and in her attitude, met the pal faced young man at the top of the stairs. Bht did not recognize the proprietor of the Breton milis, in his slight forni. She would have looked for a man of lofty stature and commanding míen, and not a mere lad whom nobody would glance twieO at on the street. "Where is Curran? I- I want him." "Why, he's just gone; he drove off to Lewiston." "To Leiristen? Are you sure?' Why, this must be some important personage after all, he was so peremptory. Poor people can bully, but there is a shamefacedness or an over affectation of authority that betrays them; their self consciousness Iets the whole secret out. "Either Lewiston or Kaleigh; Icanttell, really, sir. Shall I get you a carriage, Mr. - Mr. f' "Two hoi-ses and a buggy; a driver, too. Teil them it is for Mr. Breton; and," he shouted after the woman, "if they give me a poor horse he will be dead before they ever see him again. " It seemed an hour before the horses drew up before the boarding house door, and another hour before tbey , had lef t the yillage behind. Then the little ' patience Philip had forsook him. Ho caught the reins from the astonished driver, and at the threatening snap of the wliip the horses took their fastest gait. It was a little past 9 o'clock the next morning that Philip Breton, palé from a sleepless night, knocked at a low studded door in an ill ventilated teuement house, where they told him Curran lived. Within was Bertha, the high bred woman, wonted to the costliest luxuries of wealth. And she was willing, then, to live in such squalor as this to be with the man she loved. Could change have been cruel enough to have touched her? Perhaps an infant hung hungrily on her bosom, and Curran, fallen back into his vulgar traditions, loungel in red flannel shirt sleeves in her presence. Could he bear the sight? But she might be alone ; his heart beat f aster with terror and hope. She would lift her sweet eyes pleasautly to him - so easy it is for women to forget the agony they have caused. She would hold out her shapely hand to him, but it would be stained and worn from hardships. Should he fall at her feet? Would he be able to remember she was another's - dead to himi He knocked again, possibly 110 one was at home. "Come in." It was a man's voice. As Philip opeued the door he saw the man he sought by the window, eagerly looking up and down the street, as if waiting for some sign. There was no guilty fear or shame in the ca lm face that was turned to his visitor. "Breton." He gave him his hand with hearty good will. "Somehow I could not speak last night, but you have begun a noble work. Why, I had rather feel the proud safcisfaction you must have, I would rather be in your place than the greatest man in the whole world." Philip was afraid to look about him. Perhaps Bertha had no wish to spéak to him, or else she was not here ; there was no atmosphere of a woman's love and care in the place, somehow. But Curran went on in his quick, eager way, "The rich men have the most glorious privilege ever men had. Each man of wealth can let the fountains of light and joy into the lives of a village in some way which siiall make his name blessed forever. Instead of that, whole generations of us have to break ourselves in pieces in the effort to wear away their rock. We fail, as the wretched 2,000 creaturas who strike here today will fail, to gain one privilege more for ourselves, yet our children may profit trom our sacriiices, perhaps, or their children. Anything is better than spiritless, eternal submission." Philip released his hand from the man's clasp and turned to look about him. No woman's shawl hung on the rack. No baby's shoès or toys were in sight. A man's rude hands had set the chairs in an awkward row. A man's hands made the comf ortless looking bed that stood in one corner. There was uo soft scent of perfume, such as Bertha would have left behind her if she had but lately gone. Why, Bertha could never have breathed for a momont there. Love can do much, but it cannot make a woman over. "Where is your wife?" Philip asked in a low, breathless voice. "Bertha." The eager look faded f rom Curran's face, and his bluo eyes grew troubled. For an instant he did not answer, but stood with folded arms gazing out into the streot. "What is a wife?' he said at. last. "A woman who loves a man and lives in his love, who pines in his absence and listens to tha coming of his foot steps, as the sweetest music in the world to her; to whom all the gifts of life would be nothing without hira; to whom poverty and disgrace would lose their hatefulnesa if he shared them. A wife is a sweetheart, a hundred times tenderer and happier." His voice grew bitter and hard for a moment as he added, "No, I have no wife, Bertha has left me." He beard a shout, and a score of hurrying fonns ruslied by his window. He turned frdm the window in a sudden passion of excitement. "Tlio strike has begun. What pity do tbs rich deservef Even their women are taught only to break lionest men's hcarts. They ara beautii'iil ;is the angels of hea ven and cruel and pitiless as the angels of helL" "But wait," cried Philip, catching hun by the arm. Curran had not yet spoken tiw longed for words to protect Bêrtha's nama from the insult of another suspicious thought, But a shout rolled up from the street, oa another and another in quick successioa. Curran shook him off and, catching his hal from the table, sprang down the stairs. O BE CONT1KUJCU.5