the door scrubbing
type with potash to cleanse it. The backs of his hands were horribly
raw and bleeding with chaps, due to the frequent necessity of washing
them in order to serve the machines, and the impossibility of drying
them properly. Still, winter was ending now, and he only worked eleven
hours a day, in an airy room, instead of nineteen hours in a cellar,
like the little boy from the Bastille. He was a fortunate youth. The
journeyman stood idle; as often, on Saturdays, the length of the
journeyman's apron had been reduced by deliberate tearing during the
week from three feet to about a foot--so imperious and sudden was the
need for rags in the processes of printing. Big James was folding up
his apron. They all saw that Edwin had the bag, and their faces
relaxed.

"You're as good as the master now, Mr Edwin," said Big James with
ceremonious politeness and a fine gesture, when Edwin had finished
paying.

"Am I?" he rejoined simply.

Everybody knew of the great affair. Big James's words were his gentle
intimation to Edwin that every one knew the great affair was now
settled.

That night, for the first time, Edwin could read "Notre Dame" with
understanding and pleasure. He plunged with soft joy into the river of
the gigantic and formidable narrative. He reflected that after all the
sources of happiness were not exhausted.

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER ONE.

BOOK TWO--HIS LOVE.

THE VISIT.

We now approach the more picturesque part of Edwin's career. Seven
years passed. Towards the end of April 1880, on a Saturday morning,
Janet Orgreave, second daughter of Osmond Orgreave, the architect,
entered the Clayhanger shop.

All night an April shower lasting ten hours had beaten with persistent
impetuosity against the window-panes of Bursley, and hence half the town
had slept ill. But at breakfast-time the clouds had been mysteriously
drawn away, the winds had expired, and those drenched streets began to
dry under the caressing peace of bright soft sunshine; the sky was pale
blue of a delicacy unknown to the intemperate climes of the south.
Janet Orgreave, entering the Clayhanger shop, brought into it with her
the new morning weather. She also brought into it Edwin's fate, or part
of it, but not precisely in the sense commonly understood when the word
`fate' is mentioned between a young man and a young woman.

A youth stood at the left-hand or `fancy' counter, very nervous. Miss
Ingamells (that was)