onous roar of machinery was
hushed, no longer filling the air with the pulsations of mighty
manufacture. The thud of the ponderous engines had ceased; the
deafening rattle of the looms was no more heard; a myriad spooming
spindles were at rest. A dreamy sound of falling waters floated
from the weir, and the song of birds in a clump of stunted trees
made music in the quiet of the morning light--it was Nature's
chance to teach man in one of the brief pauses of his toil, had he
possessed the ear to hearken or the heart to understand.

Beneath the shelter of a 'lean-to' a group of men sat, hurriedly
gulping their morning meal, finding time, all the same, for loud
talk and noisy chaff. They were prosaic, hard-faced men, with
lines drawn deeply beneath their eyes, and complexions sallow,
despite the breezes of the hills among which they were reared.
From childhood they had been the slaves of labour; the bread they
ate was earned by sweat and sorrow, while their spare hours were
given to boisterous mirth--the rebound of exacting toil. Two or
three were conning the betting news in a halfpenny paper of the
previous evening, and talking familiarly of the chances of the
favourites, while others disputed as to sentiments delivered in
the last great political speech.

In one corner sat Amos Entwistle, the butt of not a little mirth
from a half-dozen sceptics who had gathered round him. They
addressed him as 'Owd Brimstone,' and made a burlesque of his
Calvinistic faith, one going so far as to call him 'a glory bird,'
while another declared he was 'booked for heaven fust-class baat
payin' for his ticket.'

'Why should he pay for his ticket,' asked an impudent-looking
youth, 'when th' Almeety's gan it him? Th' elect awlus travels for
naught, durnd they, Amos?'

'Thaa's more Scripture larning abaat thee nor I thought thaa had,'
said Amos, withdrawing his wrinkled face from the depths of a can
out of which he was drinking tea. 'But it's noan knowledge 'at
saves, Dan; th' devils believe and tremble.'

'But I noan tremble, Amos; I geet too mich brimstone i' yon fire
hoile to be flayed at what yo' say is "resarved" for them as isn't
called.'

(Dan's occupation was to feed the boiler fires.)

'If thaa'rt noan flayed, that doesn't say thaa hasn't a devil,'
replied Amos, again raising the can to his lips.

'Well, I'm noan to blame if a' cornd help miself, am I?'

But Amos remained silent.

'Aw say, Amos,' said a thoughtful-look