the uniform of their servitude but their intimate touch with that
inner world of beautiful things.

I spent one winter at the big house, and then the shame of my
ignorance drove me forever from the haunts of my childhood. I entered
the city of Belfast, seventeen miles distant, and became coachman and
groom to a man who, by the selling of clothes, had reached the
economic status of owning a horse. In adapting himself to this new
condition, he dressed me in livery, and, after I had taught him to
drive, I sat beside him in the buggy with folded arms, arrayed in a
tall hat with a cockade. The wages in this new position were so small
that when I had paid for my room and meagre board, I had nothing left
for the support of my brothers and sisters, who were still in dire
poverty.

The young lady I had met on the farm lived in this city and in my
neighbourhood; but I would have considered it a matter of gross
discourtesy to call on her, or, indeed, do anything save lift my hat
if I met her on the street, our social stations were so far apart. But
she had told me the name of the church she attended, and, as I was
thinking more about her at that time than about anybody else, I stole
quietly into the church as soon as the doors were opened, and,
ensconcing myself in a corner under the gallery, I scanned the faces
eagerly as they came in. From that obscure point I saw the young lady
once a week. At the end of three months, her family came without her.
The third Sunday of her absence I was almost on the point of asking
about her; but I mastered the desire, held my station, and went to
Scotland, where I entered a coal-pit as a helper to one of my
brothers. My pay for twelve hours a day was a dollar and fifty cents a
week. If I had not been living in the same house with my brother, this