walls from every side and pressed close to him. Such people he had never
seen: wan, worn, stunted, pinched, starved, joyless. They were all
children, meagerly clothed, badly nourished, ill developed. They were
quite silent. They did not cry. They did not protest. They did not
argue. They did not plead. They did not laugh. They just looked at him.
They made no sound of any sort. He had children of his own and he had
known many children. He had never known so many gathered together
without a smile or a laugh.

His eye wandered around the room. They were very close to him and yet
they did not touch him. He turned to the desk where the lad had sat, but
he was no longer there and yet he well remembered his face. He knew
exactly how he looked. He turned to the nearest child and in some
strange way, although the poor, wretched face had not changed, his look
suggested the lad who had been his first visitor. He turned to another
and another. They all looked back at him in the same way with the same
eyes.

He threw his head up again and saw the castle of success of which he had
dreamed. He looked down again. This was the foundation. Slowly his hand
went to the desk. The little crowding figures drew back to give him
freedom of movement as he stretched his hand out for a telegraph-blank.
He drew it to him. He seized a pen and wrote rapidly:

"Build no more mills, take the children out of those already in
operation, put men in their places. We will be content with less profit
in the future."

He read over the telegram. The telephone was close at hand. He called up
the telegraph-office, dictated it and directed it to be sent