had reddened to the roots of his hair. He knew in a flash what
the token signified, and the sight stirred his pity; but it also jarred
on his strong sense of discipline, and he turned sternly to the
operatives.

"What does this mean?"

There was a short silence; then one of the hands, a thin bent man with
mystic eyes, raised his head and spoke.

"We done that for Dillon," he said.

Amherst's glance swept the crowded faces. "But Dillon was not killed,"
he exclaimed, while the overseer, drawing out his pen-knife, ripped off
the cloth and tossed it contemptuously into a heap of cotton-refuse at
his feet.

"Might better ha' been," came from another hand; and a deep "That's so"
of corroboration ran through the knot of workers.

Amherst felt a touch on his arm, and met Mrs. Westmore's eyes. "What has
happened? What do they mean?" she asked in a startled voice.

"There was an accident here two days ago: a man got caught in the card
behind him, and his right hand was badly crushed."

Mr. Tredegar intervened with his dry note of command. "How serious is
the accident? How did it happen?" he enquired.

"Through the man's own carelessness--ask the manager," the overseer
interposed before Amherst could answer.

A deep murmur of dissent ran through the crowd, but Amherst, without
noticing the overseer's reply, said to Mr. Tredegar: "He's at the Hope
Hospital. He will lose his hand, and probably the whole arm."

He had not meant to add this last phrase. However strongly his
sympathies were aroused, it was against his rule, at such a time, to say
anything which might inflame the quick passions of the workers: he had
meant to make light of the accident, and dismiss the operatives with a
sharp word of reproof. But Mrs. Westmore's face was close to his: he saw
the pity in her eyes, and feared, if he checked its expression, that he
might never again have the chance of calling it forth.

"His right arm? How terrible! But then he will never be able to work
again!" she exclaimed, in all the horror of a first confrontation with
the inexorable fate of the poor.

Her eyes turned from Amherst and rested on the faces pressing about her.
There were many women's faces among them--the faces of fagged
middle-age, and of sallow sedentary girlhood. For the first time Mrs.
Westmore seemed to feel the bond of blood between herself and these dim
creatures of the underworld: as Amherst watched her the lovely miracle
was wrought. Her pallour