. Moore
abruptly turned from the deputation and re-entered his counting-house.

His last words had left a bad, harsh impression; he, at least, had
"failed in the disposing of a chance he was lord of." By speaking kindly
to William Farren--who was a very honest man, without envy or hatred of
those more happily circumstanced than himself, thinking it no hardship
and no injustice to be forced to live by labour, disposed to be
honourably content if he could but get work to do--Moore might have made
a friend. It seemed wonderful how he could turn from such a man without
a conciliatory or a sympathizing expression. The poor fellow's face
looked haggard with want; he had the aspect of a man who had not known
what it was to live in comfort and plenty for weeks, perhaps months,
past, and yet there was no ferocity, no malignity in his countenance; it
was worn, dejected, austere, but still patient. How could Moore leave
him thus, with the words, "I'll never give in," and not a whisper of
good-will, or hope, or aid?

Farren, as he went home to his cottage--once, in better times, a decent,
clean, pleasant place, but now, though still clean, very dreary, because
so poor--asked himself this question. He concluded that the foreign
mill-owner was a selfish, an unfeeling, and, he thought, too, a foolish
man. It appeared to him that emigration, had he only the means to
emigrate, would be preferable to service under such a master. He felt
much cast down--almost hopeless.

On his entrance his wife served out, in orderly sort, such dinner as she
had to give him and the bairns. It was only porridge, and too little of
that. Some of the younger children asked for more when they had done
their portion--an application which disturbed William much. While his
wife quieted them as well as she could, he left his seat and went to the
door. He whistled a cheery stave, which did not, however, prevent a
broad drop or two (much more like the "first of a thunder-shower" than
those which oozed from the wound of the gladiator) from gathering on the
lids of his gray eyes, and plashing thence to the threshold. He cleared
his vision with his sleeve, and the melting mood over, a very stern one
followed.

He still stood brooding in silence, when a gentleman in black came up--a
clergyman, it might be seen at once, but neither Helstone, nor Malone,
nor Donne, nor Sweeting. He might be forty years old; he was
plain-looking, dark-complexioned, and already rather