aid George, bitterly. "I wish I'd never
been born myself!"

Surprised and frightened, Eliza sat down, leaned her head on her
husband's shoulder, and burst into tears.

"There now, Eliza, it's too bad for me to make you feel so, poor girl!"
said he, fondly; "it's too bad: O, how I wish you never had seen me--you
might have been happy!"

"George! George! how can you talk so? What dreadful thing has happened,
or is going to happen? I'm sure we've been very happy, till lately."

"So we have, dear," said George. Then drawing his child on his knee, he
gazed intently on his glorious dark eyes, and passed his hands through
his long curls.

"Just like you, Eliza; and you are the handsomest woman I ever saw, and
the best one I ever wish to see; but, oh, I wish I'd never seen you, nor
you me!"

"O, George, how can you!"

"Yes, Eliza, it's all misery, misery, misery! My life is bitter as
wormwood; the very life is burning out of me. I'm a poor, miserable,
forlorn drudge; I shall only drag you down with me, that's all. What's
the use of our trying to do anything, trying to know anything, trying to
be anything? What's the use of living? I wish I was dead!"

"O, now, dear George, that is really wicked! I know how you feel about
losing your place in the factory, and you have a hard master; but pray
be patient, and perhaps something--"

"Patient!" said he, interrupting her; "haven't I been patient? Did I say
a word when he came and took me away, for no earthly reason, from the
place where everybody was kind to me? I'd paid him truly every cent of
my earnings,--and they all say I worked well."

"Well, it _is_ dreadful," said Eliza; "but, after all, he is your
master, you know."

"My master! and who made him my master? That's what I think of--what
right has he to me? I'm a man as much as he is. I'm a better man than he
is. I know more about business than he does; I am a better manager than
he is; I can read better than he can; I can write a better hand,--and
I've learned it all myself, and no thanks to him,--I've learned it in
spite of him; and now what right has he to make a dray-horse of me?--to
take me from things I can do, and do better than he can, and put me to
work that any horse can do? He tries to do it; he says he'll bring me
down and humble me, and he puts me to just the hardest, meanest and
dirtiest work, on purpose!"

"O, George! George! you frighten me! Why, I never heard you talk so; I'm
afraid you'll do som