cold air. Far behind her, panting and puffing along, came a
black, burly figure, Dr. Knowles. She had seen him behind her
all the way, but they did not speak. Between the two there lay
that repellent resemblance which made them like close
relations,--closer when they were silent. You know such people?
When you speak to them, the little sharp points clash. Yet they
are the few whom you surely know you will meet in the life beyond
death, "saved" or not. The Doctor came slowly along the quiet
country-road, watching the woman's figure going as slowly before
him. He had a curious interest in the girl,--a secret reason for
the interest, which as yet he kept darkly to himself. For this
reason he tried to fancy how her new life would seem to her. It
should be hard enough, her work,--he was determined on that; her
strength and endurance must be tested to the uttermost. He must
know what stuff was in the weapon before he used it. He had been
reading the slow, cold thing for years,--had not got into its
secret yet. But there was power there, and it was the power he
wanted. Her history was simple enough: she was going into the
mill to support a helpless father and mother; it was a common
story; she had given up much for them;--other women did the same.
He gave her scanty praise. Two years ago (he had keen, watchful
eyes, this man) he had fancied that the homely girl had a dream,
as most women have, of love and marriage: she had put it aside,
he thought, forever; it was too expensive a luxury; she had to
begin the life-long battle for bread and butter. Her dream had
been real and pure, perhaps; for she accepted no sham love in its
place: if it had left an empty hunger in her heart, she had not
tried to fill it. Well, well, it was the old story. Yet he
looked after her kindly as he thought of it; as some people look
sorrowfully at children, going back to their own childhood. For