oo. He could not marry her, because his own wife
stood in the way, nor could he even see or walk with her often, for fear
busy tongues might talk of it, but he watched every flutter of her
shawl.

One night Stephen went home to his lodging to find his wife returned.
She was lying drunk across his bed, a besotted creature, stained and
splashed, and evil to look at. All that night he sat sleepless and sick
at heart.

Next day, at the noon hour, he went to his employer's house to ask his
advice. He knew the law sometimes released two people from the marriage
tie when one or the other lived wickedly, and his whole heart longed to
marry Rachel.

But Bounderby told him bluntly that the law he had in mind was only for
rich men, who could afford to spend a great deal of money. And he
further added (according to his usual custom) that he had no doubt
Stephen would soon be demanding the turtle-soup and venison and the
golden spoon.

Stephen went home that night hopeless, knowing what he should find
there. But Rachel had heard and was there before him. She had tidied the
room and was tending the woman who was his wife. It seemed to Stephen,
as he saw her in her work of mercy, there was an angel's halo about her
head.

Soon the wretched creature she had aided passed out of his daily life
again to go he knew not where, and this act of Rachel's remained to make
his love and longing greater.

About this time a stranger came to Coketown. He was James Harthouse, a
suave, polished man of the world, good-looking, well-dressed, with a
gallant yet indolent manner and bold eyes.

Being wealthy, he had tried the army, tried a Government position, tried
Jerusalem, tried yachting and found himself bored by them all. At last
he had tried facts and figures, having some idea these might help in
politics. In London he had met the great believer in facts, Mr.
Gradgrind, and had been sent by him to Coketown to make the acquaintance
of his friend Bounderby. Harthouse thus met the mill owner, who
introduced him to Louisa, now his wife.

The year of married life had not been a happy one for her. She was
reserved and watchful and cold as ever, but Harthouse easily saw that
she was ashamed of Bounderby's bragging talk and shrank from his
coarseness as from a blow. He soon perceived, too, that the only love
she had for any one was given to Tom, though the latter little deserved
it. In his own mind Harthouse called her father a machine, her broth