might blunt the knives of the cutter, into which it would next go.

In a corner of the lining, her fingers met something hard. Here was
some object that had slipped down between the stuff and the lining,
and must be cut out. Mary ran the jacket along the cutting-knife,
and something rolled into her lap. Not a button this time! she held
it up to the light, and examined it curiously. It was a brooch, of
glass, or clear stones, in a tarnished silver setting. Dim and dusty,
it still seemed full of light, and glanced in the sun as Mary held
it up.

"What a pretty thing!" she said. "I wonder if it is glass. I must
take this to Mr. Gordon, for I never found anything like it before.
Jessie cannot have this."

She laid it carefully aside, and went on with her sorting, working
so quickly that in a few moments the sieve was empty, and the basket
piled with good cotton rags, ready for the cutting-machine.

Taking her hat and shawl, Mary passed out, holding the brooch
carefully in her hand. There were few people in the mill, only the
machine-tenders, walking leisurely up and down beside their machines,
which whirred and droned on, regardless of dinnertime. The great
rollers went round and round, the broad white streams flowed on and
on over the screens, till the mysterious moment came when they
ceased to be wet pulp and became paper.

Mary hardly glanced at the wonderful machines; they were an old
story to her, though in every throb they were telling over and over
the marvellous works of man. The machine-tenders nodded kindly in