CHAPTER IV.


She entered the vast, dingy factory; the woollen dust, the clammy
air of copperas were easier to breathe in; the cramped, sordid
office, the work, mere trifles to laugh at; and she bent over the
ledger with its hard lines in earnest good-will, through the slow
creeping hours of the long day. She noticed that the unfortunate
chicken was making its heart glad over a piece of fresh earth
covered with damp moss. Dr. Knowles stopped to look at it when
he came, passing her with a surly nod.

"So your master's not forgotten you," he snarled, while the blind
old hen cocked her one eye up at him.

Pike, the manager, had brought in some bills.

"Who's its master?" he said, curiously, stopping by the door.

"Holmes,--he feeds it every morning."

The Doctor drawled out the words with a covert sneer, watching
the cold face bending over the desk, meantime.

Pike laughed.

"Bah! it's the first thing he ever fed, then, besides himself.