"Exactly," rejoined Kirby. "I do not think. I wash my hands of
all social problems,--slavery, caste, white or black. My duty
to my operatives has a narrow limit,--the pay-hour on Saturday
night. Outside of that, if they cut korl, or cut each other's
throats, (the more popular amusement of the two,) I am not
responsible."

The Doctor sighed,--a good honest sigh, from the depths of his
stomach.

"God help us! Who is responsible?"

"Not I, I tell you," said Kirby, testily. "What has the man who
pays them money to do with their souls' concerns, more than the
grocer or butcher who takes it?"

"And yet," said Mitchell's cynical voice, "look at her! How
hungry she is!"

Kirby tapped his boot with his cane. No one spoke. Only the
dumb face of the rough image looking into their faces with the
awful question, "What shall we do to be saved?" Only Wolfe's
face, with its heavy weight of brain, its weak, uncertain mouth,
its desperate eyes, out of which looked the soul of his class,--
only Wolfe's face turned towards Kirby's. Mitchell laughed,--a
cool, musical laugh.

"Money has spoken!" he said, seating himself lightly on a stone
with the air of an amused spectator at a play. "Are you