she is well."

"Ask Sewell. If she is sick he will know and he will tell thee the
truth. Go now and sleep. Thy pillow may give thee comfort and wisdom."

"Your advice is always right, mother. I will take it."

"Thou art a good man, John, and all that comes to thee shall be good in
the fullness of its time and necessity. Kiss me, thou dear lad! I am
proud to be thy mother. It is honor enough for Martha Hatton!"

That night John slept sorrowfully and he had the awakening from such a
sleep--the slow, yet sudden realization of his trouble finding him out.
It entered his consciousness with the force of a knockdown blow; he
could hardly stand up against it. Usually he sang or whistled as he
dressed himself, and this was so much a habit of his nature that it
passed without notice in his household. Once, indeed, his father had
fretfully alluded to it, saying, "Singing out of time is always singing
out of tune," and Mrs. Hatton had promptly answered,

"Keep thyself to thyself, Stephen. Singing beats grumbling all to
pieces. Give me the man who _can_ sing at six o'clock in the morning. He
is worth trusting and loving, I'll warrant that. I wish thou would sing
thyself. Happen it might sweeten thee a bit." And Stephen Hatton had
kept himself to himself, about John's early singing thereafter.

This morning there was no song in John's heart and no song on his lips.
He dressed silently and rapidly as if he was in a hurry to do something
and yet he did not know what to do. His mother's positive assertion,
that the best way out of the difficulty was to let it solve itself, did
not satisfy him. He wanted to see his wife. He knew he must say some
plain, hard words to her; but she loved him, and she would surely listen
and understand how hard it was for him to say them.

He went early to the mill. He hoped there might be a letter there for
him. When he found none among his mail, he hurried back to his home.
"Jane would send her letter there," he thought. But there was no letter
there. Then his heart sank within him, but he took no further step at
that hour. Business from hundreds of looms called him. Hundreds of
workers were busy among them. Greenwood was watching for him. Clerks
were waiting for his directions and the great House of Labor shouted
from all its myriad windows.

With a pitiful and involuntary "God help me!" he buckled himself to his
mail. It was larger than ordinary, but he went with exact and patient
care over it. H