ns, or even savings banks.

To be sure, some burly fellows, whose wives could hardly keep soul and
body together over their washing-tubs, swore great oaths that Jack Darcy
was a fool to think he could find men to play into his hands that way!
Bob Winston was a blower, and never kept at any one thing; and some of
the rest were old screws, and in six months time everybody would see!

However, Hope Mills rang out its great bell cheerfully on Monday
morning, the middle of September. A small procession wended their way in
at the side gate. The engine, with Robert Winston at its helm, as they
had not suited themselves with an engineer, puffed and groaned; but, if
it was not a merry music, it was good to hear, for all that. The faces
were pinched and thin with a year's care and want and the horrible fear
of the future, but they tried to smile cheerfully. More than one poor
woman had tears in her eyes, and spoke in that hysterical,
half-laughing, half-crying tone, that told how deeply her feelings were
moved.

By night they were quite settled in the old places, or adapted to new
ones. Perhaps the year's experience had done these people some good:
they had learned to manage closer. Cameron and Darcy had discussed
thrifty French ways of management, and now meant to profit by them if
possible. The American spirit of wastefulness should not run riot as it
had in times past. Dyes and oils and chemicals were to be sharply looked
after, and Cameron was the man to do it.

Before the first week was out, an engineer came to hand. There had been
several applications, but some men raised their noses and laughed loudly
at the rate of wages. A young chap just out of his time when the panic
came on, and who had tried every thing, even to rail-roading, took the
place with hearty thanks; a quick, bright fellow too, who had a love for
his business, and said in ten minutes time, "She's a pretty engine, Mr.
Winston!" with the enthusiasm of a true artist.

"That chap'll blow up Hope Mills in less than a month," said Jem Stixon,
who had been refused. "You mark my words! I wouldn't have wife or child
of mine working there."

Darcy watched the temper of the employees, and reported every few days
to Maverick. The little social "we" and "ours" was working wonders, he
thought.

"And we do nothing!" said Sylvie one evening, in a discontented tone, as
she sat crocheting by Mrs. Darcy's pretty round table in the old
library, that had become a kind o