From the window at which I write, in these November days, I see a muddy, swollen river, spread over the meadows into a dingy lake; it is not a picturesque or a pretty stream, in spite of its Indian name. Beyond it the land slopes away into a range of long, low hills, which the autumn has browned; the long swaths of fog stretching between river and hill are so like to them and to the dissolving gray sky that they all blend in one general gloom. This picture filling my eye narrows and shapes itself into the beginning of my story: I see a lazy, dirty river on the outskirts of a manufacturing city; where the stream has broadened into a sort of pond it is cut short by the dam, and there is a little cluster of mills. They all belong to one work, however, and they look as if they had been set down there for a few months only; 'contract' seems written all over them, and very properly, for they are running on a Government order for small arms. There is no noise but an underhum of revolving shafts and the smothered thud of trip hammers. Ore dust blackens everything, and is scattered everywhere, so that the whole ground is a patchwork of black and gray; elsewhere there is snow, but here the snow is turned to the dingy color of the place. It is very quiet outside, being early morning yet; a cold mist hides the dawn, and the water falls with a winter hiss; the paths are indistinct, for the sky is only just enough lightening to show the east.

The coal dust around one door shows that the fires are there; a cavernous place, suddenly letting a lurid glow out upon the night, and then black again. It is only a narrow alley through the building, making sure of a good draft; on one side are the piles of coal, and on the other a row of furnace doors. The stoker is sitting on a heap of cinder. He is only an old man, a little stooping, with a head that is turning ashes color; his eye is faded, and his face nearly expressionless, while he sits perfectly still on the heap, as if he were a part of the engine which turns slowly in a shed adjoining and pants through its vent in the roof. He has been sitting there so long that he has a vague notion that his mind has somehow gone out of him into the iron doors and the rough coal, and he only goes round and round like the engine. Yet he never considered the matter at all, any more than the engine wanted to use its own wheel, which it turned month after month in the same place, to propel itself through the world; just so often he opened and shut each door in its turn, fed the fires, and then sat down and sat still.

He was looking at a boy of six, asleep at his feet on a pile of ashes and cinder, which was not so bad a bed, for the gentle heat left in it was as good as a lullaby, and Shakspeare long ago told us that sleep has a preference for sitting by hard pillows. The child was an odd bit of humanity. An accident at an early age had given it a hump, though otherwise it was fair enough; and now perhaps society would have seen there only an animal watching its sleeping cub. Presently the boy woke and got on his feet, and began to walk toward the cold air with short, uncertain steps, almost falling against a furnace door. The old man jumped and caught him.

'Ta, ta, Nobby,' he said, 'what's thou doin'? Them's hotter nor cender. Burnt child dreads fire—did knowst 'twas fire?'

He had a sort of language of his own, and his voice was singularly harsh, as if breathing in that grimy place so long had roughened his throat.

'There, go, Nobby, look thee out an' see howst black she is. Ta, but it's hawt,' and he rubbed his forehead with his sleeve; 'it's a deal pity this hot can nawt go out where's cold, an' people needin' it. Here's hot, there's cold, but 'twill stay here, as it loved the place 'twas born—home, like. Why, Net, that thee?'

There was no door to the place to knock at or open, but the craunch of a foot was heard on the coal outside, and a girl came in, moist and shivering. The stoker set her down in a warm corner, and looked at her now.

'Is thee, my little Net?' he repeated.

'Yes, and I've brought your breakfast, father; 'twas striking six before I come in.'

'Too early, my girl, sleep her sleep out. Here's hot an' cosey like, an' time goes, an' I could wait for breakfast, till I'm home. I'll nawt let my little girl's sleep.'

'No, father, I couldn't sleep after five, anyway; and I thought I must bring your breakfast to-day. You'll walk back through the cold easier after something hot to eat.'

'That's my dear little girl. Shiverin' yet, she is. There, lay down on this,' raking out a heap of fresh ashes, 'them warm an' soft like, an' go ye to sleep till I go.'

'No, I must heat your coffee,' she answered, steadying the pot before one of the furnaces with bits of coal.

''Ware that door doan' fly back an' hurt ye; them does so sometimes.'

'Yes, I'll be careful. Why, you've got Whitney here!'

'He come down to-night, Net. By himself, somehow, though I doan' knaw how Lord kep' his short feet from the river bank an' the floom. An' he couldn't go back, nor I couldn't go with him. He's slep' on the cender, nice; all's a cradle to Nobby.'

'Yes, cinder's a good bed, when the eyes are shut,' said the girl, bitterly. 'The coffee was smoking hot when I started, but it's cold out this morning, so there's all this to be done over.'

'Yes, outdoors has cooled it. The world was hungry, like, an' wanted to eat it. Small nubbin' for all the world, but it stole the hot an' the smell o' the meat.'

The girl did not reply to this bit of pleasantry. She was about eighteen, and her face would have been strikingly pretty except for the eager, hungering look of the eye; but in every motion, every look, and even the way in which she wore her neat and simple clothing, there was the word 'unsatisfied.'

Finally, she brought coffee and meat to him.

'Here, Net, take ye a sip,' said he; ''twill warm ye nice. Shiverin' yet she is; 'deed the mornin's clammy cold; there's naw love in thet. Drink! I cawnt take ye home so, an' my time's most up; it's gettin' light.'

But she refused it, and sat and watched him as he ate, never taking her eyes from his face.

'Father,' she presently said, 'what do you do here?'

The old stoker laughed: 'Do, my girl? Why, keep up the fires. It's like I'm a spoke in a wheel or summut. I keeps the fires, an' the fires makes the angeen go, an' thet turns the works thet makes the pistols, so't folks may kill theirsel's. There's naw peace anywheres in the world.'

'I didn't mean that; but what do you do the rest of the time? Don't you think? Aren't you tired of this place, father?'

'Sometimes it's like I think so; but how's the use, my Net? Here's rough, an' here's rough too,' touching his chest. 'On smooth floors, such as I couldn't work, if we could get there. How's the use o' bein' tired? We've got to keep steady at summut. It's best to be content, like Nobby there; cender's as good a bed as the king's got.'

'Well, if you were tired, you're going to rest now, so I wish you were.'

'What's that mean?'

'You've got through here, that's all,' cried the girl, with a smothered sob.

He set down his pot of coffee and his pail: 'Who told ye so?' he demanded.

'Margery Eames.'

Catching the girl's hand, the old man half dragged her through the opening into a yard devoted to coal storage. Picking their way through the spotted mire, they entered a shed where trip hammers were pounding in showers of sparks, stepped over a great revolving shaft, and came to a stairway; up, up, to the fifth floor, where the finishing rooms were.

Faint daylight was straggling through the narrow windows, and most of the lamps were out, those that were burning being very sickly, as if they did it under protest. A number of women were employed here, because much of the work was merely automatic, and just now men were scarce and women would work cheaper. The women were coarse and rough, rather the scum of the city—perhaps some might have fallen; but the place was noisome and grimy, with a sickening smell of oil everywhere, repulsive enough to be fit for any workers.

The stoker and his daughter walked to the farther end, and came to where a little group of women were sitting round a bench; one of the group tipped a wink to the rest.

'How's coal an' fires now, Adam?' she said.

'Did ye tell my girl anythin'?' he demanded.

'Of course I did.'

'What was't then?'

'Well,' said she, wiping her greasy hands on the bosom of her dress, 'I watched on the road for her this morning, an' I told her.'

'What?'

'I told her she needn't try to put on airs, she was only a stoker's daughter, an' he'll not have that place any more.'

'Did ye knaw she didn't knaw't?'

'Yes. What do you care, old dusty? She's got a good place.'

'Yes, she has, Lord's good for't.'

'Shall we fight it out, Adam? Hold on till I wipe my hands.'

'Nawt till one can fight by hersel', Margery. I forgive yer spite, an' hope Lord woan' bring it back to ye ever. What's said can nawt be helped. Come, Net.'

'You're a mean creature, Margery, to tell him that,' said one, after they were gone. 'I expected to hear you tell him about the place his girl's got. Lord! he's innocent as a baby about it, an' thinks she's on the way up, while everybody else knows it, an' knows it's the way down.'

''Tis that,' said Margery, 'but I've that much decency that I didn't say it. Let the old man take one thing at a time; he'll know it soon enough when she fetches up at the bottom.'

'What did you want to trouble old Adam for?'

'Because I did!' cried the woman, with a sudden flash; 'because I like to hurt people. I've been struck, an' stabbed, an' bruised, an' seared, an' people pointin' fingers at me, whose heart wasn't fouler'n theirs, if my lips were. It's all cut an' slash in the world, an' the only way to get on with pain when you're hit, is to hit somebody else. I'd rather find a soft spot in somebody than have a dollar give me, sure's my name's Margery. What business has he to have any feelin's, workin' year after year down there in the coal? Why haven't people been good to me? I never come up here into this grease; people sent me; an' when hit's the game I'll do my part. I hope his girl's a comfort to him; he'll be proud enough of her some time, you see.'

Adam seated his girl again, opened the doors one after another, and raked and fed the fires; then he shut them, and stood his rake in the corner, and seated himself.

'Well, it's come out,' he said; 'but I didn't mean ye should know, yet. Margery's ill willed, but it's like she didn't think.'

'I oughtn't to have told you till after to-morrow, father.'

'There's how't seems hard, thet it must come to Christmas. An' when I've been here so long, twenty year noo, Net.'

'Oh, don't call me that any more, father; I don't like it.'

'Why nawt, little girl? What should I call her? You used to love to hear it.'

'Not now, not now,' said the girl, in a choking voice, 'not to-day, not till Christmas is over. Call me Jane.'

'Yes, twenty year ago I come here, an' I've been settin' on them piles o' cender ever sence. 'Deed I most love them doors an' the rake an' poker. I've hed my frets about it sometimes, but I doan' want to go though.'

'And I say it's a shame in them to use you so!' cried the girl. 'Making their money hand over hand, and to go and grudge you this ash hole, for the sake of saving! They'll get no good from such reckoning. I wish their cruel old mill would burn down!'

'No, Jane, hold hersel'! Here's fire—should I do it?'

'It's Cowles's work. I hate him.'

'The mill's their own, Jane; they gev me what they liked; I've no claim. Mr. Cowles do as he think best for t'mill.'

'Then to do it just now! I hope his dinner'll be sweet.'

'I nawt meant my girl to knaw't till Christmas wor done. But ye'll nawt mind it, Jane, ye'll nawt! We'll nawt lose Christmas, too, for it come for us. Mr. Cowles doan' own thet. We'll hev thet anyhow, an' keep it. She'll nawt fret hersel', my little girl!'

Jane did not answer.

'We'll get on somehoo, Lord knaws hoo. We never starved yet, an' you've got a good place. It'll all be right, an' Christmas day to-morrow!'

'I got a good place! Oh, father!'

'Why, Jane, I thought so. Doan' they use her well?'

'Yes, they do,' quickly answered the girl; 'I don't know why I spoke so. I'm a bit discontented, perhaps, but don't you fear for me, father; and we mustn't fret—anyway, till after to-morrow.'

'She's nawt content, is she?' said the stoker, settling his head into his hands. 'I've hed my frets, too, alone here, thinkin' summut like I should liked to knaw books, an' been defferent, but it's like I'd nawt been content. Lord knows. 'Deed I loves them doors an' the old place here, but seems as if summut was sayin' there's better things; it's like there is, but nawt for such as me. I doan' care for mysel', but I'd like to hev more to gev my little girl.'

'You give me all you've got, father, and I ought to be satisfied. But I'm not—it's not your blame, father, but I know I'm not,' she said, with sudden energy. 'I don't know what I want; it's something—it seems as if I was hungry.'

'Nawt hungry, Jane! She's nawt starvin'!'

'No, I don't want any more to eat, nor better clothes,' she said, getting out the words painfully. 'It's something else; I can't tell what it is, unless I'm hungry.'

'Well, I knaw I doan' understan' her,' said the man sadly. 'I doan' knaw my little girl. Is it him she's thinkin' of?'

The fire-glow on the girl's face hid any change that may have come there, and she only drew a little farther away, without answering.

'I've nawt seen many people, Jane, but sometimes I likes an' dislikes, as Nobby does, an' I doan' like him. An' I doan' like him to be nigh my girl; there's naw truth in him. I wish she'd say she'll hev naw more speech with him.'

'No, no, father, don't ask me that. I don't care for him, but I can't promise not to speak to him—I do! I do! Oh, father!' sobbed the girl, 'everything comes at once!'

The old man drew her head on his knee, and even his rough voice grew softer, talking to his 'little girl.' He bent and kissed her.

'I wish 'twere nawt so,' he said; 'but mebbe I'm wrong. Lord keep my little girl, an' we'll nawt fret, but be happy to-morrow.'

Another man came in with a big tread. It was the engineer, a hale, burly fellow, with a genuine, rollicking kindness. He tossed the boy into the air, pinched Jane's cheek, and gave his morning salutation in several lusty thumps on the stoker's back.

'Rippin' day this'll be, Adam,' said he; 'say t'won't, an' I'll shake your ribs loose. Just such a day's I like to breathe in; an' when I've set all night in my chair there, not sleepin' of course, but seein' that everlastin' old crosshead go in an' out, an' that wheel turnin' away just so fast an' no faster, I swear I do go to sleep with my eyes open; an' when it gets light such a day's this, I get up an' shake myself—this fashion,' giving him an extra jerk. 'Keep up heart, Adam; I know it, an' I don't know what Cowles is thinkin' of. I don't want to crowd you out, an' you ought to be the last one to go. I'd quit 'em for it myself, afford it or not, only 'twon't do you no good.'

'Merry Christmas, Mr. Grump!' cried Nobby, rubbing his eyes.

'You've slept over, my young 'un,' laughed the engineer; 'you're one day ahead. Of course the palty mill must run to-morrow. Mine don't, I warrant. My machinery runs on a fat turkey, twenty pound if he's an ounce. That's me.'

'Yes, and we've got a turkey too,' chimed Nobby.

'I warrant you have. An' he had as good an appetite when he was alive as anybody else's turkey; them fellows do gobble their grub quite conscientiously, fattin' 'emselves without knowin' or carin' whether rich or poor'll eat 'em. I'll bet yours's as fat an' good's Mr. Prescott's, or old Cowles's—damn him! No, I don't mean quite that, so near Christmas, but he ought to be choked with his own dinner, I'll say that. Keep up good heart, Adam; an' now clear out, every one! cut home to yer breakfasts! My watch now, and' I won't have one of ye round—scud! or wait a minute an' I'll pitch ye out.'

II.

After his breakfast, Adam walked back to the factory. He was wondering, as he went along, why they should begin with him if they wanted to save expense. Eighteen dollars a month was a good deal to him, but what was it to the mill? Every turn of the water wheel, he thought, made more money than his day's wages. But possibly Mr. Prescott had found out that his son fancied Jane, and meant to drive them out of town. The very day that Mr. Prescott saw him first, Mr. Cowles, the manager, told him he wasn't needed any longer, that the under engineer would see to the fires. That was punishing him for another's fault—just the way with rich men; and for a while he almost hated Mr. Prescott.

Adam Craig had had a peculiar life, as he thought. He wanted education, money, and such other things, besides something to eat and wear; but they never came to him, and he drifted into a place at the machine shops, and got the stamp put on him, and then went his round year after year with less and less thought of stepping out of it. Yet he always believed he once had some uncommon stuff in him, and he claimed his own respect for having had it, even if he had lost it now; he had his own way of proving it too. His wife was the mirror by which he judged himself. She was a German woman, whom he found in the city hospital; or rather she found him, shot through the throat by the accidental discharge of a rifle. She was just from the fatherland, and could not speak a word of English; with his swollen head he could not speak at all; but she watched him through it, and by the signs of that language which is common to all nations, they managed to understand each other, and signalized the day of his recovery by marrying. This was the pride of Adam's whole life, and convinced him he was made capable of being somebody; he held his wife to be a superior woman, and her appreciation was a consolation that never left him. 'She knawed me,' he used to say, 'she saw into me better nor I did.' And though he would talk stoutly sometimes for democracy, he had an odd notion that marrying a Continental European gave him some sort of distinction; and all his troubled talks with himself ended in his saying: 'Ah, well, if I'd been born in Germany, I might been somebody.'

Adam watched for Mr. Cowles most of the forenoon, determined to ask about his dismissal; at last the manager strolled through the shops, and Adam made a desperate effort, and went to him. He turned short about, as the stoker spoke.

'Mr. Cowles, was ye told to send me away?'

'Told! Who should tell me?'

'But I thought—I thought Mr. Prescott might said summut—'

'Do you suppose he concerns himself about you? I'm master here, and I don't ask what I shall do.'

Adam took hope: 'Hev ye said sure I must go, Mr. Cowles? I've been here so long, an' noo I'm old. I've got gray at t'mill,' touching his head as he spoke.

'You've had your wages regular, haven't you?' said Cowles, roughly. 'I don't inquire how long you've been here. Would I keep an old lathe that was worn or that I had no use for, because I'd had it a good while? Stay round to-day, if you like, and then go.'

'But eighteen dollars is nawt much to t'mill,' said Adam, humbly; 'doan' be hard, an' gev me a chance, a chance to help mysel'! T'winter's hard, an' I've a family!'

'Did I make your family? You should have thought of that long ago. Stand out of the way, if you're done.'

The stoker clung to the doorpost.

'Summut else I could do—there must be summut—ye knaw summut else, Mr. Cowles?'

'Something else to do, you fool! What could you do—run the engine? tend the planers? If I wanted you at all, I should keep you where you were.'

He moved off at this. Adam seated himself on the familiar cinder heaps and grieved in his simple way, for a time feeling almost bitter.

Little Nobby's deformity was one of the strange things that made Adam think. Several years before, he had the child with him at the factory one night, just old enough to walk a little. In Adam's momentary absence the boy managed to get upon a box near one of the furnace doors, and, rolling against the blistering iron, was horribly burned; yet unaccountably he did not die, but grew bent into a scarred, shapeless body, though his face was a sweet, childish one, innocent of fire. Nobby, as Adam called him after that, was a silent preacher to the stoker. When a clergyman asked him once if he was a Christian, he pointed to Nobby's back:

'I knaw there's a Lord,' he said,' or else Nobby'd died, burnt so sore thet way; an' I knaw He's good, or Nobby'd been a fool a'terward, like children thet burn theirsel's. Saved Nobby from dyin' an' from bein' worse nor dead, both, Lord meant him good.'

The boy was Adam Craig's grandson. His firstborn, Tom, was wild, and went to sea—the old story—leaving wife and unborn child for his father to look to. Six years had gone—the seventh began at New Year's; the boy was born, burnt, saved alive, and not idiotic; its mother had died; Adam's life was outrunning the child's, and he would soon have to leave it to go on by itself; but his faith in his son's return never shook.

'Him'll come back,' he would say, simply, and in perfect confidence, 'I knaw't well. Lord never burnt Nobby for nawt. Him's nawt dead; him'll come back some time, I knaw.'

III.

Adam went back at noon, and found something else to take his thoughts: Nobby was in his pains—a sad remnant of his terrible mishap. These were irregular, and he had been free for several months, but he had been exposed to the cold to-day. There was little to be done. At such times Adam could only cry over him, hold him in his arms while he was twisting his crooked body so that it would hardly stay in or upon anything, and say:

'Poor, poor Nobby. Him'll nawt die, Katry; but how can he live? Lord send back Tom!'

Jane was busy somewhere, and did not come home till evening. Her father had been turned out of his place; Nobby was in his pains again, after they had been hoping he wouldn't have any more; and to-morrow was Christmas! As she said, everything came at once. Things seemed to swim before her eyes—Nobby's pain was the most real of all—and as she could not help him, she wanted to get out of sight. It was all true. Aching and longing intolerably for something more than she had known, she had met Will Prescott—and he had loved her—he said so; and he had promised her books and pictures, and chances for travel and study.

She went into the best room, already trimmed for to-morrow; the Christmas tree was clustered with gifts and with candles ready for lighting, and the motto was on the top, 'Gott zur hÜlfe.' Jane looked it all over, and her lip quivered.

'This is pure and honest, as it says,' said she; 'and I'm a lie myself, cheating father. Christmas to-morrow! 'twon't last long; if he only knew I go to—I won't say the word—would he ever care about me again?'

She went into the other room for her shawl.

'Hes my little girl got to go out to-night?' said Adam. 'Well, there's to-morrow. Doan' stay late, Net,' kissing her good-by.

She pulled the hood over her face and went out, taking the road to the city, never slackening her pace till the lights along the way grew thicker, and she came upon the pavements. Crossing the great thoroughfare, she turned into a narrow street, and from that descended a short flight of steps into a narrower one lit only by a great lamp in front of a door, with the word 'Tanzhaus' above it; she went in here unhesitatingly. A large room with a bar on one side, small tables in the middle, and a stage at the farther end; some tables had occupants, drinking and looking at several women dancing on the stage. This was Jane's 'place;' the dance house wanted her face at its tables, and as there was nothing else open, in very desperation she went. She turned into a smaller room where the private tables were, to which she belonged; at first they had tried to teach her to dance, but she would not learn. The furniture was worn, with a slimy polish in spots; an unclean, stifling smell in the air; a few coarse prints of racers and champions hung around; and in one place a drunken artist had sketched one night a Crucifixion on the wall; the owner was angry enough, but something held back his hand from touching it, and it staid there, covered by an old newspaper.

As Jane laid away her shawl and hood, a woman came forward to meet her.

'What are you here for?' she said, fiercely; 'this is Christmas eve! there's none for me—I wish I could cry, but my tears are dried up,' snatching her tawdry cap from her head and stamping on it; 'but you're not a devil yet. Go home, if you've got a home! out the back way—quick!'

The woman caught her shoulder, pulled away the paper, and pointed to the picture on the wall.

'Look at that! When I see that, I think sometimes I'm in hell! What has that got to do with me? Do you want to get out of the reach of that? Go home, go home,' shaking her furiously.

'I can't! I can't!' cried Jane, desperately. 'He won't let me. 'Twas here or the street, I thought; I've been here three weeks, and to-night's no more'n other nights.'

A voice called in the front room, and the woman put on her cap and ran in; Jane stood where she left her. She hardly knew what moved her to-night; she saw her own body walking about, tense and foreign, as though some possession had it; she had felt a new, strange kind of strength all day, after she had her cry out. She looked up at the picture again, saying slowly to herself:

'It's for them—I've got father, and mother, and sister, and brethren.'

Nine o'clock struck, and people began to come in; there was likely to be a rush to-night, and the players in the front room commenced their liveliest round of operatic airs. One after another turned into the side room, and the calls for service grew lively. Jane moved among them mechanically, thinking all the while of Nobby tossing in his pain; of the tree waiting for to-morrow; of her father turned out of his place; of the rent and the grocer's bill that were about due; and of her own wages, pretty much all that was left. Was it such a terrible sin to be there—for them? Then she shivered to think she might be sliding down. No, no, she would be kept—they should be taken care of, but she wouldn't fall while she had them to think of. A hot flush colored her face as she thought of young Prescott, confusing her so that she almost stumbled. What would he think if he knew where she worked? No matter, he shouldn't know it. He would take her out of this by and by, and after that she would tell him all about it, and what she did it for, and he would love her all the better for it.

The hours struck and went by, and the room grew hotter and noisier. Once the tables were emptied; but a fresh party came in, and their leader waved them to seats with maudlin politeness. He was a handsome young man, partly drunk already; he pushed the woman he had with him into a chair, and dropped into another himself. His back was toward Jane; she stood still a minute, then walked slowly, as if something dragged her, till she could see his face.

The glass she held fell from her hand with a crash, but she stood dumb and white, and clung trembling to the table. He started, but gave her a nod.

'You, Will Prescott! Oh, my God!'

'You here, Jane! And you're one of 'em too! I didn't think it quite so soon.'

She did not seem to hear the last words. The blood surged back to her face, and she sank at his feet.

'No, no,' she moaned, 'I'm not, I'm not—I'm only here. You won't think worse of me, Will, seeing I did it for them? I must work somewhere, and this was all I could find. Say you don't think that! Say you believe me!'

He smiled in a drunken way, without speaking.

'Say it, Will! Say you love me, and take me out of this!'

'Ho, ho! that's a devilish good one! You're here, and so'm I; I'm just a little merry to-night—couldn't wait till to-morrow. We're well met, Jane—these are my friends; here's my most par-ticular friend,' laying his hand on his companion's shoulder.

The girl seemed to be stunned so that she did not understand.

'See it, hey? 'Say you love me!' You do it beautifully, Jane—do some more. Did you ever think I loved you?—Oh, yes! and that I wanted to marry you—of course! If your face hadn't looked prettier'n it does now, damn me if I'd ever looked twice at it!'

He turned his chair a little.

'What's that!' he screamed, catching sight of the painting on the wall. 'Take it away! You put it there, you wretch!' staring at it with his eyes fixed.

The noise brought the owner to the door—a burly Dutchman.

'Landlord, put that thing away—cover it up! Damnation! Do I want to come here to be preached at?'

'Who pulled that paper off, I say?' said the man. 'I pinned The Clipper over it. You did it, I swar! Be off with yer!'

'Oh, let her stay, Lumpsey,' said a woman that came in from the bar; 'she'll be one on 'em when she gits round.'

'I won't; I won't have nobody here that's better'n we be no longer. Here's yer pay; an' now, missis, start yerself, an' don't yer come nigh here agen 'thout yer'll behave decent an' be one on us.'

He tossed some bank notes toward her, took her by the shoulders, and shoved her out, shutting the door upon her.

IV.

Everybody had gone out on Christmas eve—darting about in sleighs; at service in the churches; at a party given in their set; shopping, as if their lives depended on it. Buying, selling, visiting, looking, the city was all astir. In the churches, soberly gay with evergreen trimming, like a young widow very stylish in black, but very proper withal, people were listening to the anthems, and everything about the place was wide awake, unless it was the chimes taking a nap until twelve o'clock; drygoods men ran to and fro, dropping smiles, and winding themselves up in a great medley reel of silks, laces, and things of virtu in general; next door, the booksellers were resplendent in dazzling bindings, pictures and photographs of everything and everybody, all of which were at everybody's disposal—take 'em all home, if you pleased; livery stables were as bare as if there had been an invasion of the country that day, and smiling keepers touched their pockets, and shook their heads pityingly at late comers; and even in the markets jolly butchers laughed, and sawed, and cut, and counted their money—and those leathery fellows that were never jolly, suddenly found out a new commercial maxim, that jollity is the best policy, and they fell to laughing too. 'Christmas is coming!' thought everybody. 'Christmas is coming!' and some of the lively small bells in the towers, not grown yet to years of ripe discretion, whispered to each other, and had to bite their tongues to keep from shouting it right out.

The dance house and the narrow alley left behind, Jane was in the street too; she went with the crowd, pulling her hood so as to hide her face. She glanced at the costly goods that lay in confusion on the counters of the stores, and smiled bitterly, taking hold of her own cheap dress; the sleighs almost ran over her, they shot back and forth so wildly, to her whirling brain; a German air that a band was playing on a serenade somewhere in the distance seemed to roar in her ears like thunder. She stopped before a confectioner's. The hot smell of meats came up through the grating where she stood; the window was ablaze with gas, piled high with pyramids of glittering frost, which rose out of a heaped profusion of carved lobster and turkey, and fruits and candies; she saw girls with pretty faces and nice dresses waiting on the fashionable crowd inside, and said to herself that she ought to be there. Some one touched her. It was a girl younger than herself, who stood glaring at the window, shivering in her ragged clothing; her eyes looked unnaturally large out of her sharp, pinched face, daubed with tears and dirt.

'Look a' thar!' she cried eagerly, catching Jane's arm, 'see them! Why ben't them mine? Why ben't I in thar, a buyin' o' them? I ort to ride, ortn't I? Why ben't I got nice things on, like a' them thar? Pinchin' Dave's got my dress for three shillin' to-night—the last un I been a savin'; must ha' some drink, so't I'd be forgettin'—to-night, to-night, ye see, I say—hoh!'

Giving a wild laugh, the girl ran off. A man inside was looking angrily through the window; so Jane turned from the thoroughfare, and finally struck into the road by which she came. The street lamps had given way to the moon. The flats adjoining the city were all white except marshy spots; passing two tall buildings, that made a sort of gateway, the country spread to the sky unbroken, except where rows of dreary houses, shadowy without the twinkle of a light, stood on some new land; this was not the fashionable road, and it was empty. How pure and cool it was! In the city, there was straggling moonlight, darkened by the brick walls, but no moon; out here, the moon had just broken from a bank of cloud low down, piled on a bank of snow, all looking snowy and alike, the horizon line being hardly distinguishable; the light poured from the edge in a shining flood, and rippled without a sound over the crisp, crusted snow—all of one kin, cold, sparkling, desolate.

Jane noted nothing of this; she walked dizzily along the road. Only one day since morning, after living a whole lifetime in that! She scooped up a handful of snow, and rubbed it furiously into her face and eyes, they burned so; her eyes were dry, melting the snow without feeling wet any. Clear back in the morning, Margery Eames met her; then the day dragged along as if it never would go, and she ate nothing but the tears she swallowed; going down those steps, through that dreadful door, waiting on those tables—the evening, till Will Prescott came in. She had wanted so to have what others had, to study, to paint—such things as she had seen, and she couldn't make a stroke! to learn to sing, as she had heard them sing in the churches; to see Germany, that her mother had told her about; she wanted to be loved—not like father and Nobby, but another way too; she had a right to have such things—other people had them. He had praised her, stroked her hair; said she was too pale, but no matter, she'd brighten up by and by; she was his little bluebell he had found in the woods, that he was going to make over into a red rose; she should have everything she wanted, and go with him everywhere, pretty soon—only be patient; if he could wait, couldn't she? And she had been patient, without telling father about it, though somehow he found out; she had waited in the road an hour more than once for a kind word and a smile as he rode by; she had borne with her hard fare, and waited for him to do the things he promised; and after she had to go into the dance house, she hated it most for his sake—she hated him to kiss her, for fear he'd find some taint on her lips of the place she went to; she thought of him all the while, to keep up courage; of course it was for father and Nobby she did it, but he helped her. It was all over now.

She came to the bridge over the river, and stopped on it. Just then she happened to think of a choral her mother liked to sing: 'A mighty fortress is our God.' A fortress—not hers. Did He sometimes turn against people and crowd them—who crowded the girl at the confectioner's window? Was there any God at all? Not in the city; only two sorts of people were there, who either lived in fine houses, and had no souls at all, or else went about the streets, and had lost them. Was there any God out here? If there was, He wouldn't have let Mr. Cowles turn her father off, and she wouldn't be out in the cold; there wasn't any anywhere.

Jane looked down at the water. It was muddy, but it gave a wavering reflection as the wind ruffled it; now and then a piece of driftwood glided from under the bridge, and was borne along toward the factory dam. Her mind flashed round to the factory, and home, and the Christmas tree for to-morrow, and she laughed bitterly. Jump! She had lost him, all that had been keeping her up so long—he never meant to marry her, though he said so, and she believed him. Everything went with that love; what was there left? What matter what came now? Jump! But father and Nobby? She couldn't leave them unprovided for. Money, money! she must have money, for them.

The bells began to chime very softly, as they always did at twelve o'clock of this night in the year. They seemed to say: 'Come! come! come!' She caught at the sound. There was money in the city, and one way yet to earn it.

'They're calling me!' she cried, clutching her dress wildly with both hands; 'they're pushing me into hell—why shouldn't I go? They'll have money, and I'm gone already.'

She turned, and walked back without faltering, to the edge of the city, and stopped between the two buildings. There was an alley close by, like one she knew so well; by the noise there was revel in it. She hesitated a minute, crouching out of sight in the shadow of the buildings.

'Don't stop here!' she muttered to herself; 'now as well as any other time!' and turned into the alley. The light was streaming from a door near the middle, and a man in sailor's dress came out and caught a glimpse of her creeping along close to the wall.

'Hey, lass!' he said, 'merry Christmas to ye! 'Rived in port to-day. Been a cruisin'. Locker full, an' all hands piped ashore. What craft be you—a Dutch galley? Sail down a bit, till I get within speakin' distance.'

She only staggered closer against the wall.

'Beatin' off, hey? Well, lass, come an' drink to better acquaintance.'

'It's the first time, but I'll go—I'll go with you,' she answered. She followed him to the door. The gas flared full on his face, and she gave a mortal scream.

'Brother Tom!'

He made a headlong clutch at her, but she broke away, leaving a fragment of her dress in his hand, and flew round the corner out of his sight.

She ran blindly through several streets, but finally she regained the road, and never stopped her headlong speed till she leaned against the door of Adam Craig's cottage. She pushed the door open softly, and went in. Quick as she had been, her brother was there already, standing by Nobby's bed; Adam Craig was there, but his back was turned.

'Did you—tell him?' she whispered.

Her brother nodded, and put out his hand. She took it, with a half hesitation.

'He understands,' he whispered, answering the question of her eyes.

The old stoker turned around. She made a move to shrink away, but he caught her, and drew her to his breast, crying and sobbing:

'Lord, Lord, Lord's good!' he cried, 'thank Him for't! She's saved, my little girl! I've found more'n I've lost, to-day. Oh, she's pure yet, she's saved—she's nawt lost, my girl, she's nawt! I didn't knaw't! didn't knaw what she was doin', but it's all right noo! We'll never want any more, but if Net'd been lost—but she's nawt, nawt—she's nawt gone, she's here, an' harm never'll come nigh her any more! I knowed Tom'd come back, an' now Net! they both hev saved each other, Lord's good for't!'

'But Nobby?' she whispered.

'Lord brought us one, an' noo He's goin' to take back t'other,' said Adam.

The child was twisting in his father's arms in the height of his pain.

'I knaw noo why 'twas I went away thet mornin', an' Nobby got t'bump,' said Adam, looking on sadly.

The young sailor made no answer. The partial drunkenness of his first night on shore was gone, and he only held his suffering child, wiping the drops from its face. So they stood watching, and the hours went on.

'ZuhÖret!' cried Adam's wife. 'Die Weihnachtsglocken!'

It was the bells, ringing out the full morning carol. The child was lying on his bed; he brightened up a little, then shut his eyes wearily, and stopped writhing. For little Nobby it that moment became true that