of all his kindness, that there was that in her face and form
which made him loathe the sight of her. She felt by instinct,
although she could not comprehend it, the finer nature of the
man, which made him among his fellow-workmen something unique,
set apart. She knew, that, down under all the vileness and
coarseness of his life, there was a groping passion for whatever
was beautiful and pure, that his soul sickened with disgust at
her deformity, even when his words were kindest. Through this
dull consciousness, which never left her, came, like a sting,
the recollection of the dark blue eyes and lithe figure of the
little Irish girl she had left in the cellar. The recollection
struck through even her stupid intellect with a vivid glow of
beauty and of grace. Little Janey, timid, helpless, clinging to
Hugh as her only friend: that was the sharp thought, the bitter
thought, that drove into the glazed eyes a fierce light of pain.
You laugh at it? Are pain and jealousy less savage realities
down here in this place I am taking you to than in your own
house or your own heart,--your heart, which they clutch at
sometimes? The note is the same, I fancy, be the octave high or
low.

If you could go into this mill where Deborah lay, and drag out
from the hearts of these men the terrible tragedy of their
lives, taking it as a symptom of the disease of their class, no
ghost Horror would terrify you more. A reality of soul-
starvation, of living death, that meets you every day under the
besotted faces on the street,--I can paint nothing of this, only
give you the outside outlines of a night, a crisis in the life
of one man: whatever muddy depth of soul-history lies beneath
you can read according to the eyes God has given you.