place a thick, unclean odor. The slightest motion of his hand
marked that he perceived it, and his insufferable disgust. That
was all. May said nothing, only quickened his angry tramp.

"Besides," added Mitchell, giving a corollary to his answer, "it
would be of no use. I am not one of them."

"You do not mean"--said May, facing him.

"Yes, I mean just that. Reform is born of need, not pity. No
vital movement of the people's has worked down, for good or
evil; fermented, instead, carried up the heaving, cloggy mass.
Think back through history, and you will know it. What will
this lowest deep--thieves, Magdalens, negroes--do with the light
filtered through ponderous Church creeds, Baconian theories,
Goethe schemes? Some day, out of their bitter need will be
thrown up their own light-bringer,--their Jean Paul, their
Cromwell, their Messiah."

"Bah!" was the Doctor's inward criticism. However, in practice,
he adopted the theory; for, when, night and morning, afterwards,
he prayed that power might be given these degraded souls to
rise, he glowed at heart, recognizing an accomplished duty.

Wolfe and the woman had stood in the shadow of the works as the
coach drove off. The Doctor had held out his hand in a frank,
generous way, telling him to "take care of himself, and to
remember it was his right to rise." Mitchell had simply touched
his hat, as to an equal, with a quiet look of thorough
recognition. Kirby had thrown Deborah some money, which she