called on her mother for aid, and she thought, "If mother had but
lived, she would have helped me." Forgetting that the woman's
sorrows are far more difficult to mitigate than a child's, even by
the mighty power of a mother's love; and unconscious of the fact,
that she was far superior in sense and spirit to the mother she
mourned. Aunt Esther was still mysteriously absent, and people had
grown weary of wondering, and begun to forget. Barton still
attended his club, and was an active member of a Trades' Union;
indeed, more frequently than ever, since the time of Mary's return
in the evening was so uncertain; and as she occasionally, in very
busy times, remained all night. His chiefest friend was still
George Wilson, although he had no great sympathy on the questions
that agitated Barton's mind. But their hearts were bound by old
ties to one another, and the remembrance of former things gave an
unspoken charm to their meetings. Our old friend, the cub-like lad,
Jem Wilson, had shot up into the powerful, well-made young man, with
a sensible face enough; nay, a face that might have been handsome,
had it not been here and there marked by the small-pox. He worked
with one of the great firms of engineers, who send from out their
towns of workshops engines and machinery to the dominions of the
Czar and the Sultan. His father and mother were never weary of
praising Jem, at all which commendation pretty Mary Barton would
toss her head, seeing clearly enough that they wished her to
understand what a good husband he would make, and to favour his
love, about which he never dared to speak, whatever eyes and looks
revealed.

One day, in the early winter time, when people were provided with
warm substantial gowns, not likely soon to wear out, and when,
accordingly, business was rather slack at Miss Simmonds', Mary met