woman, sitting there,--how she would dig down into the middle of
the world, and find the kingdom of the griffins, or would go
after Mercy and Christiana in their pilgrimage. It was only a
little while ago since these things were more alive to her than
anything else in the world. The seat was under the
currant-bushes still. Very little time ago; but she was a woman
now,--and, look here! A chance ray of sunlight slanted in,
falling barely on the dust, the hot heaps of wool, waking a
stronger smell of copperas; the chicken saw it, and began to
chirp a weak, dismal joy, more sorrowful than tears. She went to
the cage, and put her finger in for it to peck at. Standing
there, if the vacant life coming rose up before her in that hard
blare of sunlight, she looked at it with the same still, waiting
eyes, that told nothing.

The door opened at last, and a man came in,--Dr. Knowles, the
principal owner of the factory. He nodded shortly to her, and,
going to the desk, turned over the books, peering suspiciously at
her work. An old man, overgrown, looking like a huge misshapen
mass of flesh, as he stood erect, facing her.

"You can go now," he said, gruffly. "Tomorrow you must wait for
the bell to ring, and go--with the rest of the hands."

A curious smile flickered over her face like a shadow; but she
said nothing. He waited a moment.

"So!" he growled, "the Howth blood does not blush to go down into
the slime of the gutter? is sufficient to itself?"