metal into shapes. These found leisure to curse the
"sneaking Frenchman" at the hotel; but the imprecations were gathered
up in the whirl and clash of machinery, the din of bells, the hoarse
shouting of many voices, and went no further. Outside, the hills
towered high above the little hamlet, and the river foamed along the
valley. The world was very remote.

"Come to Rome for Christmas," mused Henry Denvil, still resting his
head on his hand, and idly scrawling figures on the back of the letter
with a pencil.

The request stung him to the quick. He was not needed to complete the
happiness of a Roman Christmas. Was not Madame Robin always _so_
interested to hear about Cecilia? This poor mother had once possessed
such a daughter. From these conversations invariably resulted doubt,
cynicism, depression. Would his family dwell in peace at dull
Foundryville? Alas! no. The coming years were as blank in prospect as
was the present in reality, under the subtle suggestions of Madame
Robin's sympathy.

M. Jacques Robin quitted his desk in the corner of the office and
approached on tip-toe. Henry Denvil had drawn a card, the ace of
diamonds, on the back of his daughter's letter. M. Robin smirked.

"If you are disengaged at eight o'clock, I should like to show you
another game," he said, in a discreet and respectful tone.

"Yes," assented the master, moodily.

The November night settled gloomily on Foundryville. Mist swathed the
hill-tops and rolled along the slopes, the rain fell monotonously, and
the river, invisible in the darkness, mingled its melancholy music
with the fitful soughing of the wind. Lights gleamed in the windows of
the houses; occasionally a great glare illuminated the whole village;
the withered foliage glowed in the shaft of crimson fire; far below,
the water twinkled and rippled as if reflecting a conflagration: it
was the hour of casting at the foundry, when the chimney belched its
volumes of smoke, and the molten iron poured forth in rivulets, like a
lava torrent, in the black void of the vast building.

Up in the master's home a single feeble ray was visible in the
inhabited wing. Henry Denvil had fallen asleep in his chair. He awoke,
looked at his watch, and rose. Eight o'clock. He caught a glimpse of
his own face in the glass; it was pale and worn. He resumed his chair.
The clock ticked in-doors; the rain fell steadily out-of-doors. The
lamp had been so placed that its rays fell on a portrait opp