e able to tell that until morning, every thing is in
such confusion. Pray God that the morning may dawn soon! I seem to have
lived through years."

The dawn came up by and by; first in faint opaline splendors, then
scarlet and gold. The moon paled, and the stars dropped out, and there
was a chirp of birds to welcome the new-born day.

The shock of the fire cooled the temper of the raiders, for half the men
were idle hangers-on, rather than absolute strikers. One frantic woman
flew to the scene of devastation: her boy, four years old, was missing.
They tried to comfort her with the thought that some neighbor had kindly
taken him in, but she kept wildly imploring them to search.

There was no further molestation of the men at Hope Mills. They walked
in the yard quietly at seven o'clock, their faces touched with surprise
and terror when they heard the story of the night. Barton Kane lay
disabled at Mrs. Connelly's, and poor Bruno was buried with honors,
regretted by the whole force.

Jack called the men together, and addressed them briefly. He was very
pale, and his usually bright, clear eyes were heavy.

"I want to thank you," he said, in a tone that was a little unsteady
with exhaustion and emotion, "I want to thank you for standing so
bravely by me, and by your principles. We are all partners together, and
what is one man's interest is every man's. I feel sure that we shall
never have another difficulty. We have gone through the worst, and in a
little while every man will have his free choice again. Let us all keep
the warmest of friends until then."

There was no cheering: they were not gay enough for that. Some of the
men wrung his hand silently; then the women pressed forward, and invoked
a blessing upon him.

"We know better nor any of 'em what it was to have no fire, and childers
cryin' for bread," said one woman, wiping her eyes with the end of her
faded shawl. "And, thank the Lord, I've had bite, and sup, and fire,
ever since the day Hope Mills was opened."

The men outside were working at the ruins,--among them some of the
strikers of yesterday. They found poor Mrs. Rooney's little Johnny,
burned to a crisp; and in the house next to Keppler's they exhumed the
body of Biddy Brady, a good-natured, efficient washerwoman, whose
greatest fault was her intemperance. She and her son had gone to bed
very drunk, after having a good time through the evening. The boy had
been roused in season, but she had perished