him into contact with this mysterious class that shone down on
him perpetually with the glamour of another order of being.
What made the difference between them? That was the mystery of
his life. He had a vague notion that perhaps to-night he could
find it out. One of the strangers sat down on a pile of bricks,
and beckoned young Kirby to his side.

"This is hot, with a vengeance. A match, please?"--lighting his
cigar. "But the walk is worth the trouble. If it were not that
you must have heard it so often, Kirby, I would tell you that
your works look like Dante's Inferno."

Kirby laughed.

"Yes. Yonder is Farinata himself in the burning tomb,"--
pointing to some figure in the shimmering shadows.

"Judging from some of the faces of your men," said the other,
"they bid fair to try the reality of Dante's vision, some day."

Young Kirby looked curiously around, as if seeing the faces of
his hands for the first time.

"They're bad enough, that's true. A desperate set, I fancy.
Eh, Clarke?"

The overseer did not hear him. He was talking of net profits
just then,--giving, in fact, a schedule of the annual business
of the firm to a sharp peering little Yankee, who jotted down
notes on a paper laid on the crown of his hat: a reporter for