nted Harold all to myself. Besides, was he not
deluding my nephews into this horrid Hydriot Company, of which they
would be the certain victims?

The Staffordshire man came, and the former workmen looked very bitter
on him. After a meeting, in which the minority made many vehement
objections, Eustace addressed the workmen in the yards--that is to say,
he thought he did; but Harold and Mr. Yolland made his meaning more
apparent. A venture in finer workmanship, imitating Etruscan ware, was
to be made, and, if successful, would much increase trade and profits,
and a rise in wages was offered to such as could undertake the
workmanship. Moreover, it was held out to them that they might become
the purchasers of shares or half shares at the market price, and thus
have an interest in the concern, whereat they sneered as at some new
dodge of the Company for taking them in. It did not seem to me that
much was done, save making Harry pore over books and accounts, and run
his hands through his hair, till his thick curls stood up in all
directions.

And Miss Woolmer herself was sorry. She remembered the old story--nay,
she had one of Prometesky's own figures modelled in terra cotta,
defective, of course, as a work of art, but with that fire that genius
can breathe into the imperfect. She believed it had been meant for the
Hope of Poland. Alas! the very name reminded one of the old word for
despair, "Wanhope." But Harold admired it greatly, and both he and
George Yolland seemed to find inspiration in it.

But one summer evening, when the young men were walking up and down the
garden, smoking, we heard something that caused us to look round for a
thunder-cloud, though none could be seen in the clear sky, and some
quarter of an hour after, Richardson hurried out to us with the
tidings, "I beg your pardon, sir, but there is a person come up to say
there has been an explosion at the Hydriot works."

"Impossible!" said Harold. "There's nothing to explode!"

"I beg your pardon, sir, but it is Mr. Yolland they say has blowed
himself up with his experiments, and all the old 'Dragon's Head' in
Lerne Street, and he is buried under the ruins. It is all one mass of
ruin, sir, and he under it."

Harold rushed off, without further word or query, and Eustace after
him, and I had almost to fight to hold back Dora, and should hardly
have succeeded if the two had not disappeared so swiftly that she could
not hope to come up with them.