ough the
Doctor's flurry, and generous heat, and self-approval, into his will,
with those slow, absorbing eyes of his.

"Make yourself what you will. It is your right.

"I know," quietly. "Will you help me?"

Mitchell laughed again. The Doctor turned now, in a passion,--

"You know, Mitchell, I have not the means. You know, if I had, it is in
my heart to take this boy and educate him for"--

"The glory of God, and the glory of John May."

May did not speak for a moment; then, controlled, he said,--

"Why should one be raised, when myriads are left?--I have not the money,
boy," to Wolfe, shortly.

"Money?" He said it over slowly, as one repeats the guessed answer to a
riddle, doubtfully. "That is it? Money?"

"Yes, money,--that is it," said Mitchell, rising, and drawing his
furred coat about him. "You've found the cure for all the world's
diseases.--Come, May, find your good-humor, and come home. This
damp wind chills my very bones. Come and preach your Saint-Simonian
doctrines' to-morrow to Kirby's hands. Let them have a clear idea of the
rights of the soul, and I'll venture next week they'll strike for higher
wages. That will be the end of it."

"Will you send the coach-driver to this side of the mills?" asked Kirby,
turning to Wolfe.

He spoke kindly: it was his habit to do so. Deborah, seeing the puddler
go, crept after him. The three men waited outside. Doctor May walked up
and down, chafed. Suddenly he stopped.

"Go back, Mitchell! You say the pocket and the heart of the world
speak without meaning to these people. What has its head to say? Taste,
culture, refinement? Go!"

Mitchell was leaning against a brick wall. He turned his head
indolently, and looked into the mills. There hung about the place a
thick, unclean odor. The slightest motion of his hand marked that he
perceived it, and his insufferable disgust. That was all. May said
nothing, only quickened his angry tramp.

"Besides," added Mitchell, giving a corollary to his answer, "it would
be of no use. I am not one of them."

"You do not mean"--said May, facing him.

"Yes, I mean just that. Reform is born of need, not pity. No vital
movement of the people's has worked down, for good or evil; fermented,
instead, carried up the heaving, cloggy mass. Think back through
history, and you will know it. What will this lowest deep--thieves,
Magdalens, negroes--do with the light filtered through ponderous Church
creeds, Baconian theories, Goethe