May did not speak for a moment; then, controlled, he said,--

"Why should one be raised, when myriads are left?--I have not
the money, boy," to Wolfe, shortly.

"Money?" He said it over slowly, as one repeats the guessed
answer to a riddle, doubtfully. "That is it? Money?"

"Yes, money,--that is it," said Mitchell, rising, and drawing
his furred coat about him. "You've found the cure for all the
world's diseases.--Come, May, find your good-humor, and come
home. This damp wind chills my very bones. Come and preach
your Saint-Simonian doctrines' to-morrow to Kirby's hands. Let
them have a clear idea of the rights of the soul, and I'll
venture next week they'll strike for higher wages. That will be
the end of it."

"Will you send the coach-driver to this side of the mills?"
asked Kirby, turning to Wolfe.

He spoke kindly: it was his habit to do so. Deborah, seeing
the puddler go, crept after him. The three men waited outside.
Doctor May walked up and down, chafed. Suddenly he stopped.

"Go back, Mitchell! You say the pocket and the heart of the
world speak without meaning to these people. What has its head
to say? Taste, culture, refinement? Go!"

Mitchell was leaning against a brick wall. He turned his head
indolently, and looked into the mills. There hung about the