The Gray Mills of Farley

The mills of Farley were close together by the river, and the gray houses that belonged to them stood, tall and bare, alongside. They had no room for gardens or even for little green side-yards where one might spend a summer evening. The Corporation, as this compact village was called by those who lived in it, was small but solid; you fancied yourself in the heart of a large town when you stood mid-way of one of its short streets, but from the street’s end you faced a wide green farming country. On spring and summer Sundays, groups of the young folks of the Corporation would stray out along the country roads, but it was very seldom that any of the older people went. On the whole, it seemed as if the closer you lived to the mill-yard gate, the better. You had more time to loiter on a summer morning, and there was less distance to plod through the winter snows and rains. The last stroke of the bell saw almost everybody within the mill doors.

There were always fluffs of cotton in the air like great white bees drifting down out of the picker chimney. They lodged in the cramped and dingy elms and horse-chestnuts which a former agent had planted along the streets, and the English sparrows squabbled over them in eaves-corners and made warm, untidy great nests that would have contented an Arctic explorer. Somehow the Corporation homes looked like make-believe houses or huge stage-properties, they had so little individuality or likeness to the old-fashioned buildings that made homes for people out on the farms. There was more homelikeness in the sparrows’ nests, or even the toylike railroad station at the end of the main street, for that was warmed by steam, and the station-master’s wife, thriftily taking advantage of the steady heat, brought her house-plants there and kept them all winter on the broad window-sills.

The Corporation had followed the usual fortunes of New England manufacturing villages. Its operatives were at first eager young men and women from the farms near by, these being joined quickly by pale English weavers and spinners, with their hearty-looking wives and rosy children; then came the flock of Irish families, poorer and simpler than the others but learning the work sooner, and gayer-hearted; now the Canadian-French contingent furnished all the new help, and stood in long rows before the noisy looms and chattered in their odd, excited fashion. They were quicker-fingered, and were willing to work cheaper than any other workpeople yet.

There were remnants of each of these human tides to be found as one looked about the mills. Old Henry Dow, the overseer of the cloth-hall, was a Lancashire man and some of his grandchildren had risen to wealth and prominence in another part of the country, while he kept steadily on with his familiar work and authority. A good many elderly Irishmen and women still kept their places; everybody knew the two old sweepers, Mary Cassidy and Mrs. Kilpatrick, who were looked upon as pillars of the Corporation. They and their compatriots always held loyally together and openly resented the incoming of so many French.

You would never have thought that the French were for a moment conscious of being in the least unwelcome. They came gayly into church and crowded the old parishioners of St. Michael’s out of their pews, as on week-days they took their places at the looms. Hardly one of the old parishioners had not taken occasion to speak of such aggressions to Father Daley, the priest, but Father Daley continued to look upon them all as souls to be saved and took continual pains to rub up the rusty French which he had nearly forgotten, in order to preach a special sermon every other Sunday. This caused old Mary Cassidy to shake her head gravely.

“Mis’ Kilpatrick, ma’am,” she said one morning. “Faix, they ain’t folks at all, ’tis but a pack of images they do be, with all their chatter like birds in a hedge.”

“Sure then, the holy Saint Francis himself was after saying that the little birds was his sisters,” answered Mrs. Kilpatrick, a godly old woman who made the stations every morning, and was often seen reading a much-handled book of devotion. She was moreover always ready with a friendly joke.

“They ain’t the same at all was in them innocent times, when there was plenty saints living in the world,” insisted Mary Cassidy. “Look at them thrash, now!”

The old sweeping-women were going downstairs with their brooms. It was almost twelve o’clock, and like the old dray-horses in the mill yard they slackened work in good season for the noonday bell. Three gay young French girls ran downstairs past them; they were let out for the afternoon and were hurrying home to dress and catch the 12:40 train to the next large town.

“That little one is Meshell’s daughter; she’s a nice child too, very quiet, and has got more Christian tark than most,” said Mrs. Kilpatrick. “They live overhead o’ me. There’s nine o’ themselves in the two rooms; two does be boarders.”

“Those upper rooms bees very large entirely at Fitzgibbon’s,” said Mary Cassidy with unusual indulgence.

“‘Tis all the company cares about is to get a good rent out of the pay. They’re asked every little while by honest folks ‘on’t they build a trifle o’ small houses beyond the church up there, but no, they’d rather the money and kape us like bees in them old hives. Sure in winter we’re better for having the more fires, but summer is the pinance!”

“They all says ‘why don’t folks build their own houses’; they does always be talking about Mike Callahan and how well he saved up and owns a pritty place for himself convanient to his work. You might tell them he’d money left him by a brother in California till you’d be black in the face, they’d stick to it ’twas in the picker he earnt it from themselves,” grumbled Mary Cassidy.

“Them French spinds all their money on their backs, don’t they?” suggested Mrs. Kilpatrick, as if to divert the conversation from dangerous channels. “Look at them three girls now, off to Spincer with their fortnight’s pay in their pocket!”

“A couple o’ onions and a bag o’ crackers is all they want and a pinch o’ lard to their butter,” pronounced Mary Cassidy with scorn. “The whole town of ’em ‘on’t be the worse of a dollar for steak the week round. They all go back and buy land in Canada, they spend no money here. See how well they forget their pocketbooks every Sunday for the collection. They do be very light too, they’ve more laugh than ourselves. ‘Tis myself’s getting old anyway, I don’t laugh much now.”

“I like to see a pritty girl look fine,” said Mrs. Kilpatrick. “No, they don’t be young but once–“

The mill bell rang, and there was a moment’s hush of the jarring, racketing machinery and a sudden noise of many feet trampling across the dry, hard pine floors. First came an early flight of boys bursting out of the different doors, and chasing one another down the winding stairs two steps at a time. The old sweepers, who had not quite reached the bottom, stood back against the wall for safety’s sake until all these had passed, then they kept on their careful way, the crowd passing them by as if they were caught in an eddy of the stream. Last of all they kept sober company with two or three lame persons and a cheerful delayed little group of new doffers, the children who minded bobbins in the weave-room and who were young enough to be tired and even timid. One of these doffers, a pale, pleasant-looking child, was all fluffy with cotton that had clung to her little dark plaid dress. When Mrs. Kilpatrick spoke to her she answered in a hoarse voice that appealed to one’s sympathy. You felt that the hot room and dry cotton were to blame for such hoarseness; it had nothing to do with the weather.

“Where are you living now, Maggie, dear?” the old woman asked.

“I’m in Callahan’s yet, but they won’t keep me after to-day,” said the child. “There’s a man wants to get board there, they’re changing round in the rooms and they’ve no place for me. Mis’ Callahan couldn’t keep me ‘less I’d get my pay raised.”

Mrs. Kilpatrick gave a quick glance at Mary Cassidy. “Come home with me then, till yez get a bite o’ dinner, and we’ll talk about it,” she said kindly to the child. “I’d a wish for company the day.”

The two old companions had locked their brooms into a three-cornered closet at the stair-foot and were crossing the mill yard together. They were so much slower than the rest that they could only see the very last of the crowd of mill people disappearing along the streets and into the boarding-house doors. It was late autumn, the elms were bare, one could see the whole village of Farley, all its poverty and lack of beauty, at one glance. The large houses looked as if they belonged to a toy village, and had been carefully put in rows by a childish hand; it was easy to lose all sense of size in looking at them. A cold wind was blowing bits of waste and paper high into the air; now and then a snowflake went swiftly by like a courier of winter. Mary Cassidy and Mrs. Kilpatrick hugged their old woolen shawls closer about their round shoulders, and the little girl followed with short steps alongside.

II.

The agent of the mills was a single man, keen and business-like, but quietly kind to the people under his charge. Sometimes, in times of peace, when one looks among one’s neighbors wondering who would make the great soldiers and leaders if there came a sudden call to war, one knows with a flash of recognition the presence of military genius in such a man as he. The agent spent his days in following what seemed to many observers to be only a dull routine, but all his steadiness of purpose, all his simple intentness, all his gifts of strategy and powers of foresight, and of turning an interruption into an opportunity, were brought to bear upon this dull routine with a keen pleasure. A man in his place must know not only how to lead men, but how to make the combination of their force with the machinery take its place as a factor in the business of manufacturing. To master workmen and keep the mills in running order and to sell the goods successfully in open market is as easy to do badly as it is difficult to do well.

The agent’s father and mother, young people who lived for a short time in the village, had both died when he was only three years old, and between that time and his ninth year he had learned almost everything that poverty could teach, being left like little Maggie to the mercy of his neighbors. He remembered with a grateful heart those who were good to him, and told him of his mother, who had married for love but unwisely. Mrs. Kilpatrick was one of these old friends, who said that his mother was a lady, but even Mrs. Kilpatrick, who was a walking history of the Corporation, had never known his mother’s maiden name, much less the place of her birth. The first great revelation of life had come when the nine-years-old boy had money in his hand to pay his board. He was conscious of being looked at with a difference; the very woman who had been hardest to him and let him mind her babies all the morning when he, careful little soul, was hardly more than a baby himself, and then pushed him out into the hungry street at dinner time, was the first one who beckoned him now, willing to make the most of his dollar and a quarter a week. It seemed easy enough to rise from uttermost poverty and dependence to where one could set his mind upon the highest honor in sight, that of being agent of the mills, or to work one’s way steadily to where such an honor was grasped at thirty-two. Every year the horizon had set its bounds wider and wider, until the mills of Farley held but a small place in the manufacturing world. There were offers enough of more salary and higher position from those who came to know the agent, but he was part of Farley itself, and had come to care deeply about his neighbors, while a larger mill and salary were not exactly the things that could tempt his ambition. It was but a lonely life for a man in the old agent’s quarters where one of the widows of the Corporation, a woman who had been brought up in a gentleman’s house in the old country, kept house for him with a certain show of propriety. Ever since he was a boy his room was never without its late evening light, and books and hard study made his chief companionship.

As Mrs. Kilpatrick went home holding little Maggie by the hand that windy noon, the agent was sitting in the company’s counting-room with one of the directors and largest stockholders, and they were just ending a long talk about the mill affairs. The agent was about forty years old now and looked fifty. He had a pleasant smile, but one saw it rarely enough, and just now he looked more serious than usual.

“I am very glad to have had this long talk with you,” said the old director. “You do not think of any other recommendations to be made at the meeting next week?”

The agent grew a trifle paler and glanced behind him to be sure that the clerks had gone to dinner.

“Not in regard to details,” he answered gravely. “There is one thing which I see to be very important. You have seen the books, and are clear that nine per cent. dividend can easily be declared?”

“Very creditable, very creditable,” agreed the director; he had recognized the agent’s ability from the first and always upheld him generously. “I mean to propose a special vote of thanks for your management. There isn’t a minor corporation in New England that stands so well to-day.”

The agent listened. “We had some advantages, partly by accident and partly by lucky foresight,” he acknowledged. “I am going to ask your backing in something that seems to me not only just but important. I hope that you will not declare above a six per cent. dividend at that directors’ meeting; at the most, seven per cent.,” he said.

“What, what!” exclaimed the listener. “No, sir!”

The agent left his desk-chair and stood before the old director as if he were pleading for himself. A look of protest and disappointment changed the elder man’s face and hardened it a little, and the agent saw it.

“You know the general condition of the people here,” he explained humbly. “I have taken great pains to keep hold of the best that have come here; we can depend upon them now and upon the quality of their work. They made no resistance when we had to cut down wages two years ago; on the contrary, they were surprisingly reasonable, and you know that we shut down for several weeks at the time of the alterations. We have never put their wages back as we might easily have done, and I happen to know that a good many families have been able to save little or nothing. Some of them have been working here for three generations. They know as well as you and I and the books do when the mills are making money. Now I wish that we could give them the ten per cent. back again, but in view of the general depression perhaps we can’t do that except in the way I mean. I think that next year we’re going to have a very hard pull to get along, but if we can keep back three per cent., or even two, of this dividend we can not only manage to get on without a shut-down or touching our surplus, which is quite small enough, but I can have some painting and repairing done in the tenements. They’ve needed it for a long time–“

The old director sprang to his feet. “Aren’t the stockholders going to have any rights then?” he demanded. “Within fifteen years we have had three years when we have passed our dividends, but the operatives never can lose a single day’s pay!”

“That was before my time,” said the agent, quietly. “We have averaged nearly six and a half per cent. a year taking the last twenty years together, and if you go back farther the average is even larger. This has always been a paying property; we’ve got our new machinery now, and everything in the mills themselves is just where we want it. I look for far better times after this next year, but the market is glutted with goods of our kind, and nothing is going to be gained by cut-downs and forcing lower-cost goods into it. Still, I can keep things going one way and another, making yarn and so on,” he said pleadingly. “I should like to feel that we had this extra surplus. I believe that we owe it to our operatives.”

The director had walked heavily to the window and put his hands deep into his side-pockets. He had an angry sense that the agent’s hands were in his pockets too.

“I’ve got some pride about that nine per cent., sir,” he said loftily to the agent.

“So have I,” said the agent, and the two men looked each other in the face.

“I acknowledge my duty to the stockholders,” said the younger man presently. “I have tried to remember that duty ever since I took the mills eight years ago, but we’ve got an excellent body of operatives, and we ought to keep them. I want to show them this next year that we value their help. If times aren’t as bad as we fear we shall still have the money–“

“Nonsense. They think they own the mills now,” said the director, but he was uncomfortable, in spite of believing he was right. “Where’s my hat? I must have my luncheon now, and afterward there’ll hardly be time to go down and look at the new power-house with you–I must be off on the quarter-to-two train.”

The agent sighed and led the way. There was no use in saying anything more and he knew it. As they walked along they met old Mrs. Kilpatrick returning from her brief noonday meal with little Maggie, whose childish face was radiant. The old woman recognized one of the directors and dropped him a decent curtsey as she had been taught to salute the gentry sixty years before.

The director returned the salutation with much politeness. This was really a pleasant incident, and he took a silver half dollar from his pocket and gave it to the little girl before he went on.

“Kape it safe, darlin’,” said the old woman; “you’ll need it yet. Don’t be spending all your money in sweeties; ’tis a very cold world to them that haves no pince in their pocket.”

The child looked up at Mrs. Kilpatrick apprehensively; then the sunshine of hope broke out again through the cloud.

“I am going to save fine till I buy a house, and you and me’ll live there together, Mrs. Kilpatrick, and have a lovely coal fire all the time.”

“Faix, Maggie, I have always thought some day I’d kape a pig and live pritty in me own house,” said Mrs. Kilpatrick. “But I’m the old sweeper yet in Number Two. ‘Tis a worrld where some has and more wants,” she added with a sigh. “I got the manes for a good buryin’, the Lord be praised, and a bitteen more beside. I wouldn’t have that if Father Daley was as croping as some.”

“Mis’ Mullin does always be scolding ’bout Father Daley having all the collections,” ventured Maggie, somewhat adrift in so great a subject.

“She’s no right then!” exclaimed the old woman angrily; “she’ll get no luck to be grudging her pince that way. ‘Tis hard work anny priest would have to kape the likes of hersilf from being haythens altogether.”

There was a nine per cent. annual dividend declared at the directors’ meeting the next week, with considerable applause from the board and sincere congratulations to the agent. He looked thinner and more sober than usual, and several persons present, whose aid he had asked in private, knew very well the reason. After the meeting was over the senior director, and largest stockholder, shook hands with him warmly.

“About that matter you suggested to me the other day,” he said, and the agent looked up eagerly. “I consulted several of our board in regard to the propriety of it before we came down, but they all agreed with me that it was no use to cross a bridge until you come to it. Times look a little better, and the operatives will share in the accession of credit to a mill that declares nine per cent. this year. I hope that we shall be able to run the mills with at worst only a moderate cut-down, and they may think themselves very fortunate when so many hands are being turned off everywhere.”

The agent’s face grew dark. “I hope that times will take a better turn,” he managed to say.

“Yes, yes,” answered the director. “Good-bye to you, Mr. Agent! I am not sure of seeing you again for some time,” he added with unusual kindliness. “I am an old man now to be hurrying round to board meetings and having anything to do with responsibilities like these. My sons must take their turn.”

There was an eager protest from the listeners, and presently the busy group of men disappeared on their way to the train. A nine per cent. dividend naturally made the Farley Manufacturing Company’s stock go up a good many points, and word came presently that the largest stockholder and one or two other men had sold out. Then the stock ceased to rise, and winter came on apace, and the hard times which the agent had foreseen came also.

III.

One noon in early March there were groups of men and women gathering in the Farley streets. For a wonder, nobody was hurrying toward home and dinner was growing cold on some of the long boarding-house tables.

“They might have carried us through the cold weather; there’s but a month more of it,” said one middle-aged man sorrowfully.

“They’ll be talking to us about economy now, some o’ them big thinkers; they’ll say we ought to learn how to save; they always begin about that quick as the work stops,” said a youngish woman angrily. She was better dressed than most of the group about her and had the keen, impatient look of a leader. “They’ll say that manufacturing is going to the dogs, and capital’s in worse distress than labor–“

“How is it those big railroads get along? They can’t shut down, there’s none o’ them stops; they cut down sometimes when they have to, but they don’t turn off their help this way,” complained somebody else.

“Faith then! they don’t know what justice is. They talk about their justice all so fine,” said a pale-faced young Irishman–“justice is nine per cent. last year for the men that had the money and no rise at all for the men that did the work.”

“They say the shut-down’s going to last all summer anyway. I’m going to pack my kit to-night,” said a young fellow who had just married and undertaken with unusual pride and ambition to keep house. “The likes of me can’t be idle. But where to look for any work for a mule spinner, the Lord only knows!”

Even the French were sobered for once and talked eagerly among themselves. Halfway down the street, in front of the French grocery, a man was haranguing his compatriots from the top of a packing-box. Everybody was anxious and excited by the sudden news. No work after a week from to-morrow until times were better. There had already been a cut-down, the mills had not been earning anything all winter. The agent had hoped to keep on for at least two months longer, and then to make some scheme about running at half time in the summer, setting aside the present work for simple yarn-making. He knew well enough that the large families were scattered through the mill rooms and that any pay would be a help. Some of the young men could be put to other work for the company; there was a huge tract of woodland farther back among the hills where some timber could be got ready for shipping. His mind was full of plans and anxieties and the telegram that morning struck him like a blow. He had asked that he might keep the card-room prices up to where the best men could make at least six dollars and a half a week and was hoping for a straight answer, but the words on the yellow paper seemed to dance about and make him dizzy. “Shut down Saturday 9th until times are better!” he repeated to himself. “Shut down until times are worse here in Farley!”

The agent stood at the counting-room window looking out at the piteous, defenseless groups that passed by. He wished bitterly that his own pay stopped with the rest; it did not seem fair that he was not thrown out upon the world too.

“I don’t know what they’re going to do. They shall have the last cent I’ve saved before anybody suffers,” he said in his heart. But there were tears in his eyes when he saw Mrs. Kilpatrick go limping out of the gate. She waited a moment for her constant companion, poor little Maggie the doffer, and they went away up the street toward their poor lodging holding each other fast by the hand. Maggie’s father and grandfather and great-grandfather had all worked in the Farley mills; they had left no heritage but work behind them for this orphan child; they had never been able to save so much that a long illness, a prolonged old age, could not waste their slender hoards away.

IV.

It would have been difficult for an outsider to understand the sudden plunge from decent comfort to actual poverty in this small mill town. Strange to say, it was upon the smaller families that the strain fell the worst in Farley, and upon men and women who had nobody to look to but themselves. Where a man had a large household of children and several of these were old enough to be at work, and to put aside their wages or pay for their board; where such a man was of a thrifty and saving turn and a ruler of his household like old James Dow in the cloth-hall, he might feel sure of a comfortable hoard and be fearless of a rainy day. But with a young man who worked single-handed for his wife and a little flock, or one who had an invalid to work for, that heaviest of burdens to the poor, the door seemed to be shut and barred against prosperity, and life became a test of one’s power of endurance.

The agent went home late that noon from the counting-room. The street was nearly empty, but he had no friendly look or word for anyone whom he passed. Those who knew him well only pitied him, but it seemed to the tired man as if every eye must look at him with reproach. The long mill buildings of gray stone with their rows of deep-set windows wore a repellent look of strength and solidity. More than one man felt bitterly his own personal weakness as he turned to look at them. The ocean of fate seemed to be dashing him against their gray walls–what use was it to fight against the Corporation? Two great forces were in opposition now, and happiness could come only from their serving each other in harmony.

The stronger force of capital had withdrawn from the league; the weaker one, labor, was turned into an utter helplessness of idleness. There was nothing to be done; you cannot rebel against a shut-down, you can only submit.

A week later the great wheel stopped early on the last day of work. Almost everyone left his special charge of machinery in good order, oiled and cleaned and slackened with a kind of affectionate lingering care, for one person loves his machine as another loves his horse. Even little Maggie pushed her bobbin-box into a safe place near the overseer’s desk and tipped it up and dusted it out with a handful of waste. At the foot of the long winding stairs Mrs. Kilpatrick was putting away her broom, and she sighed as she locked the closet door; she had known hard times before. “They’ll be wanting me with odd jobs; we’ll be after getting along some way,” she said with satisfaction.

“March is a long month, so it is–there’ll be plinty time for change before the ind of it,” said Mary Cassidy hopefully. “The agent will be thinking whatever can he do; sure he’s very ingenious. Look at him how well he persuaded the directors to l’ave off wit’ making cotton cloth like everybody else, and catch a chance wit’ all these new linings and things! He’s done very well, too. There bees no sinse in a shut-down anny way, the looms and cards all suffers and the bands all slacks if they don’t get stiff. I’d sooner pay folks to tind their work whatever it cost.”

“‘Tis true for you,” agreed Mrs. Kilpatrick.

“What’ll ye do wit’ the shild, now she’s no chance of pay, any more?” asked Mary relentlessly, and poor Maggie’s eyes grew dark with fright as the conversation abruptly pointed her way. She sometimes waked up in misery in Mrs. Kilpatrick’s warm bed, crying for fear that she was going to be sent back to the poorhouse.

“Maggie an’ me’s going to kape together awhile yet,” said the good old woman fondly. “She’s very handy for me, so she is. We ‘on’t part with ‘ach other whativer befalls, so we ‘on’t,” and Maggie looked up with a wistful smile, only half reassured. To her the shut-down seemed like the end of the world.

Some of the French people took time by the forelock and boarded the midnight train that very Saturday with all their possessions. A little later two or three families departed by the same train, under cover of the darkness between two days, without stopping to pay even their house rent. These mysterious flittings, like that of the famous Tartar tribe, roused a suspicion against their fellow countrymen, but after a succession of such departures almost everybody else thought it far cheaper to stay among friends. It seemed as if at any moment the great mill wheels might begin to turn, and the bell begin to ring, but day after day the little town was still and the bell tolled the hours one after another as if it were Sunday. The mild spring weather came on and the women sat mending or knitting on the doorsteps. More people moved away; there were but few men and girls left now in the quiet boarding-houses, and the spare tables were stacked one upon another at the end of the rooms. When planting-time came, word was passed about the Corporation that the agent was going to portion out a field that belonged to him a little way out of town on the South road, and let every man who had a family take a good-sized piece to plant. He also offered seed potatoes and garden seeds free to anyone who would come and ask for them at his house. The poor are very generous to each other, as a rule, and there was much borrowing and lending from house to house, and it was wonderful how long the people seemed to continue their usual fashions of life without distress. Almost everybody had saved a little bit of money and some had saved more; if one could no longer buy beefsteak he could still buy flour and potatoes, and a bit of pork lent a pleasing flavor, to content an idle man who had nothing to do but to stroll about town.

V.

One night the agent was sitting alone in his large, half-furnished house. Mary Moynahan, his housekeeper, had gone up to the church. There was a timid knock at the door.

There were two persons waiting, a short, thick-set man and a pale woman with dark, bright eyes who was nearly a head taller than her companion.

“Come in, Ellen; I’m glad to see you,” said the agent. “Have you got your wheel-barrow, Mike?” Almost all the would-be planters of the field had come under cover of darkness and contrived if possible to avoid each other.

“‘Tisn’t the potatoes we’re after asking, sir,” said Ellen. She was always spokeswoman, for Mike had an impediment in his speech. “The childher come up yisterday and got them while you’d be down at the counting-room. ‘Twas Mary Moynahan saw to them. We do be very thankful to you, sir, for your kindness.”

“Come in,” said the agent, seeing there was something of consequence to be said. Ellen Carroll and he had worked side by side many a long day when they were young. She had been a noble wife to Mike, whose poor fortunes she had gladly shared for sake of his good heart, though Mike now and then paid too much respect to his often infirmities. There was a slight flavor of whisky now on the evening air, but it was a serious thing to put on your Sunday coat and go up with your wife to see the agent.

“We’ve come wanting to talk about any chances there might be with the mill,” ventured Ellen timidly, as she stood in the lighted room; then she looked at Mike for reassurance. “We’re very bad off, you see,” she went on. “Yes, sir, I got them potaties, but I had to bake a little of them for supper and more again the day, for our breakfast. I don’t know whatever we’ll do whin they’re gone. The poor children does be entreating me for them, Dan!”

The mother’s eyes were full of tears. It was very seldom now that anybody called the agent by his Christian name; there was a natural reserve and dignity about him, and there had come a definite se