rventes
de Bertrand de Born." The day passed for him as did his life, half in
simple-hearted deed, half in vague visions of a dead world, never to be
real again. Joel, up in the barn by himself, worked through the long day
in the old fashion,--pondering gravely (being of a religious turn) upon
a sermon by the Reverend Mr. Clinche, reported in the "Gazette"; wherein
that disciple of the meek Teacher invoked, as he did once a week, the
curses of the law upon his political opponents, praying the Lord to
sweep them immediately from the face of the earth. Which rendering of
Christian doctrine was so much relished by Joel, and the other leading
members of Mr. Clinche's church, that they hinted to him it might be as
well to continue choosing his texts from Moses and the Prophets
until the excitement of the day was over. The New Testament
was,--well,--hardly suited for the emergency; did not, somehow, chime in
with the lesson of the hour. I may remark, in passing, that this course
of conduct so disgusted the High-Church rector of the parish, that he
not only ignored all new devils, (as Mr. Carlyle might have called
them,) but talked as if the millennium, were _un fait accompli_, and he
had leisure to go and hammer at the poor dead old troubles of Luther's
time. One thing, though, about Joel: while he was joining in Mr.
Clinche's prayer for the "wiping out" of some few thousands, he was
using up all the fragments of the hot day in fixing a stall for a
half-dead old horse he had found by the road-side. Let us hope, that,
even if the listening angel did not grant the prayer, he marked down the
stall at least, as a something done for eternity.

Margaret, through the heat and stifling air, worked steadily alone in
the dusty office, the cold, homely face bent over the books, never
changing but once. It was a trifle then; yet, when she looked back
afterwards, the trifle was all that gave the day a name. The room shook,
as I said, with the thunderous, incessant sound of the engines and the
looms; she scarcely heard it, being used to it. Once, however, another
sound came between,--a slow, quiet tread, passing through the long
wooden corridor,--so firm and measured that it sounded like the
monotonous beatings of a clock. She heard it through the noise in the
far distance; it came slowly nearer, up to the door without,--passed it,
going down the echoing plank walk. The girl sat quietly, looking out at
the dead brick wall. The slow step fe