poor dead old troubles of Luther's time. One thing, though,
about Joel: while he was joining in Mr. Clinche's petition for
the "wiping out" of some few thousands, he was using up all the
fragments of the hot day in fixing a stall for a half-dead old
horse he had found by the road-side.

Perhaps, even if the listening angel did not grant the prayer, he
marked down the stall at least, as a something done for eternity.

Margret, through the stifling air, worked steadily alone in the
dusty office, her face bent over the books, never changing but
once. It was a trifle then; yet, when she looked back
afterwards, the trifle was all that gave the day a name. The
room shook, as I said, with the thunderous, incessant sound of
the engines and the looms; she scarcely heard it, being used to
it. Once, however, another sound came between,-- an iron tread,
passing through the long wooden corridor,--so firm and measured
that it sounded like the monotonous beatings of a clock. She
heard it through the noise in the far distance; it came slowly
nearer, up to the door without,--passed it, going down the
echoing plank walk. The girl sat quietly, looking out at the
dead brick wall. The slow step fell on her brain like the
sceptre of her master; if Knowles had looked in her face then, he
would have seen bared the secret of her life. Holmes had gone
by, unconscious of who was within the door. She had not seen
him; it was nothing but a step she heard. Yet a power, the power
of the girl's life, shook off all outward masks, all surface
cloudy fancies, and stood up in her with a terrible passion at
the sound; her blood burned fiercely; her soul looked out, her
soul as it was, as God knew it,--God and this man. No longer a