soul among these wretches. The Lord will take care of his own;
or else they can work out their own salvation. I have heard you

call our American system a ladder which any man can scale. Do
you doubt it? Or perhaps you want to banish all social ladders,

and put us all on a flat table-land,--eh, May?"
The Doctor looked vexed, puzzled. Some terrible problem lay hid

in this woman's face, and troubled these men. Kirby waited for
an answer, and, receiving none, went on, warming with his

subject.
"I tell you, there's something wrong that no talk of 'Liberte'

or 'Egalite' will do away. If I had the making of men, these
men who do the lowest part of the world's work should be

machines,--nothing more,--hands. It would be kindness. God
help them! What are taste, reason, to creatures who must live

such lives as that?" He pointed to Deborah, sleeping on the
ash-heap. "So many nerves to sting them to pain. What if God

had put your brain, with all its agony of touch, into your
fingers, and bid you work and strike with that?"

"You think you could govern the world better?" laughed the
Doctor.

"I do not think at all."
"That is true philosophy. Drift with the stream, because you

cannot dive deep enough to find bottom, eh?"
"Exactly," rejoined Kirby. "I do not think. I wash my hands of

all social problems,--slavery, caste, white or black. My duty
to my operatives has a narrow limit,--the pay-hour on Saturday

night. Outside of that, if they cut korl, or cut each other's
throats, (the more popular amusement of the two,) I am not

responsible."
The Doctor sighed,--a good honest sigh, from the depths of his

stomach.
"God help us! Who is responsible?"

"Not I, I tell you," said Kirby, testily. "What has the man who
pays them money to do with their souls' concerns, more than the

grocer or butcher who takes it?"
"And yet," said Mitchell's cynical voice, "look at her! How

hungry she is!"
Kirby tapped his boot with his cane. No one spoke. Only the

dumb face of the rough image looking into their faces with the
awful question, "What shall we do to be saved?" Only Wolfe's

face, with its heavy weight of brain, its weak, uncertain mouth,
its desperate eyes, out of which looked the soul of his class,--

only Wolfe's face turned towards Kirby's. Mitchell laughed,--a
cool, musical laugh.

"Money has spoken!" he said, seating himself lightly on a stone
with the air of an amused spectator at a play. "Are you

answered?"--turning to Wolfe his clear, magnetic face.
Bright and deep and cold as Arctic air, the soul of the man lay

tranquil beneath. He looked at the furnace-tender as he had
looked at a rare mosaic in the morning; only the man was the

more amusing study of the two.
"Are you answered? Why, May, look at him! 'De profundis

clamavi.' Or, to quote in English, 'Hungry and thirsty, his
soul faints in him.' And so Money sends back its answer into

the depths through you, Kirby! Very clear the answer, too!--I
think I remember reading the same words somewhere: washing your

hands in Eau de Cologne, and saying, 'I am innocent of the blood
of this man. See ye to it!'"

Kirby flushed angrily.
"You quote Scripture freely."

"Do I not quote correctly? I think I remember another line,
which may amend my meaning? 'Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of

the least of these, ye did it unto me.' Deist? Bless you, man,
I was raised on the milk of the Word. Now, Doctor, the pocket

of the world having uttered its voice, what has the heart to
say? You are a philanthropist, in a small Way,--n'est ce pas?

Here, boy, this gentleman can show you how to cut korl better,--
or your destiny. Go on, May!"

"I think a mocking devil possesses you to-night," rejoined the
Doctor, seriously.

He went to Wolfe and put his hand kindly on his arm. Something
of a vague idea possessed the Doctor's brain that much good was

to be done here by a friendly word or two: a latentgenius to
be warmed into life by a waited-for sunbeam. Here it was: he

had brought it. So he went on complacently:
"Do you know, boy, you have it in you to be a great sculptor, a

great man?do you understand?" (talking down to the capacity of
his hearer: it is a way people have with children, and men like

Wolfe,)--"to live a better, stronger life than I, or Mr. Kirby
here? A man may make himself anything he chooses. God has

given you stronger powers than many men,--me, for instance."
May stopped, heated, glowing with his own magnanimity. And it

was magnanimous. The puddler had drunk in every word, looking
through the Doctor's flurry, and generous heat, and self-

approval, into his will, with those slow, absorbing eyes of his.
"Make yourself what you will. It is your right.

"I know," quietly. "Will you help me?"
Mitchell laughed again. The Doctor turned now, in a passion,--

"You know, Mitchell, I have not the means. You know, if I had,
it is in my heart to take this boy and educate him for"--

"The glory of God, and the glory of John May."
May did not speak for a moment; then, controlled, he said,--

"Why should one be raised, when myriads are left?--I have not
the money, boy," to Wolfe, shortly.

"Money?" He said it over slowly, as one repeats the guessed
answer to a riddle, doubtfully. "That is it? Money?"

"Yes, money,--that is it," said Mitchell, rising, and drawing
his furred coat about him. "You've found the cure for all the

world's diseases.--Come, May, find your good-humor, and come
home. This damp wind chills my very bones. Come and preach

your Saint-Simonian doctrines' to-morrow to Kirby's hands. Let
them have a clear idea of the rights of the soul, and I'll

venture next week they'll strike for higher wages. That will be
the end of it."

"Will you send the coach-driver to this side of the mills?"
asked Kirby, turning to Wolfe.

He spoke kindly: it was his habit to do so. Deborah, seeing
the puddler go, crept after him. The three men waited outside.

Doctor May walked up and down, chafed. Suddenly he stopped.
"Go back, Mitchell! You say the pocket and the heart of the

world speak without meaning to these people. What has its head
to say? Taste, culture, refinement? Go!"

Mitchell was leaning against a brick wall. He turned his head
indolently, and looked into the mills. There hung about the

place a thick, unclean odor. The slightest motion of his hand
marked that he perceived it, and his insufferable disgust. That

was all. May said nothing, only quickened his angry tramp.
"Besides," added Mitchell, giving a corollary to his answer, "it

would be of no use. I am not one of them."
"You do not mean"--said May, facing him.

"Yes, I mean just that. Reform is born of need, not pity. No
vital movement of the people's has worked down, for good or

evil; fermented, instead, carried up the heaving, cloggy mass.
Think back through history, and you will know it. What will

this lowest deep--thieves, Magdalens, negroes--do with the light
filtered through ponderous Church creeds, Baconian theories,