. . . How sweet it was, Mr. Welles thought to himself, how awfully sweet
to be walking in such pine-woods, on the early morning, preceded by such
a wildly happy little dog, with a little boy whose treble voice ran on
and on, whose strong little hand clasped yours so tightly, and who
turned up to you eyes of such clear trust! Was he the same man who for
such endless years had been a part of the flotsam cast out every morning
into the muddy, brawling flood of the city street and swept along to
work which had always made him uneasy and suspicious of it?

"There's the whistle," said Paul, holding up a finger. "Father has the
first one blown at half-past six, so's the men can have time to get
their things ready and start; and not have to hurry."

At this a faint stirring of interest in what the child was saying broke
through the golden haze of the day-dream in which Mr. Welles was
walking. "Where do they come from anyhow, the men who work in your
father's mill?" he asked. "Where do they live? There are so few homes at
Crittenden's."

"Oh, they live mostly over the hill in the village, in Ashley. There are
lots of old houses there, and once in a while now they even have to
build a new one, since the old ones are all filled up. Mr. Bayweather
says that before Father and Mother came here to live and really run the
mill, that Ashley Street was all full of empty houses, without a light
in them, that the old folks had died out of. But now the men have bought
them up and live in them. It's just as bright, nights! With windows
lighted up all over. Father's had the electric current run over there
from the mill, now, and that doesn't cost anything except . . ."