rain, and made his way to the bare, cleanly swept chamber upstairs. Since the night on which he had cried out to his mother that she must not enter, the table at which the dead man had been wont to sit at work had been pushed aside. Some one had thrown a white cloth over it. Murdoch went to it and drew this cloth away. He stood and looked down at the little skeleton of wood and steel. It had been nothing but a curse from first to last, and yet it fascinated him. He found it hard to do the thing he had come to do. "It is not finished," he said to the echoes of the empty room. "It never will be." He slowly replaced it in its case, and buried it out of sight at the bottom of the trunk which, from that day forward, would stand unused and locked. When he arose, after doing this, he unconsciously struck his hands together as he had seen grave-diggers do when they brushed the damp soil away. The first time Haworth saw his new hand he regarded him with small favor. In crossing the yard one day at noon, he came upon him disposing of his unceremonious midday meal and reading at the same time. He stopped to look at him. "Who's that?" he asked one of the men. The fellow grinned in amiable appreciation of the rough tone of query. "That's th' 'Merican," he answered. "An' a soft un he is." "What's that he's reading? "Summat about engineerin', loike as not. That's his crack." In the rush of his new plans and the hurry of the last few months, Haworth had had time to forget the man who had wished him "good luck," and whose pathetic figure had been a shadow upon the first glow of his triumph. He did not connect him at all with the young fellow before him. He turned away with a shrug of his burly shoulders. "He doesn't look like an Englishman," he said. "He hasn't got backbone enough." Afterward when the two accidentally came in contact, Haworth wasted few civil words. At times his domineering brusqueness excited Murdoch to wonder. "He's a queer fellow, that Haworth," he said reflectingly to Floxham. "Sometimes I think he's out of humor with me." With the twelve-year-old daughter of one of the workmen, who used to bring her | father's dinner, the young fellow had struck up something of a friendship. She was the eldest of twelve, a mature young person whose business-like air had attracted him. She had assisted her mother in the rearing of her family from her third year, and had apparently done with the follies of youth. She was stunted with much nursing and her small face had a shrewd and careworn look. Murdoch's first advances she received with some distrust, but after a lapse of time they progressed fairly and, without any weak sentiment, were upon excellent terms. One rainy day she came into the yard enveloped in a large shawl, evidently her mother's, and also evidently very much in her way. Her dinner-can, her beer-jug and her shawl were more than she could manage. "Eh! I am in a mess," she said to Hilary, stopping at the door-way with a long-drawn breath. "I dunnot know which way to turn-what wi' th' beer and what wi' th' dinner. I've getten on mother's Sunday shawl as she had afore she wur wed, an' th' eends keep a-draggin' an' a-draggin', an' th' mud'll be th' ruin on em. Th' pin mother put in is na big enow, an' it's getten loose." There was perhaps not much sense of humor in the young man. He did not seem to see the grotesqueness of the little figure with its mud-bedraggled maternal wrappings. He turned up the lapel of his coat and examined it quite seriously. "I've got a pin here that will hold it," he said. "I picked it up because it was such a large one." Janey Briarley's eyes brightened. "Eh!" she ejaculated, "that theer's a graidely big un. Some woman mun ha' dropped it out o' her shawl. Wheer did tha foind it?" "In the street." "I thowt so. Some woman's lost it. Dost tha think tha con pin it reet, or mun I put th' beer down an' do it mysen ?" He thought he could do it and bent down to reach her level. It was at this moment that Haworth approached the door with the intention of passing out. Things had gone wrong with him, and he was in one of his worst moods. He strode down the passage in a savage hurry, and, finding his way barred, made no effort to keep his temper. "Get out of the road," he said, and pushed Murdoch aside slightly with his foot. It was as if he had dropped a spark of THE BEGINNING OF A FRIENDSHIP. THE next morning, when he appeared at the Works, Murdoch found he had to make his way through a group of the "hands" which some sufficiently powerful motive had gathered together, which group greeted his appearance with signs of interest. "Theer he is," he heard them say. And then a gentleman of leisure, who was an outsider leaning against the wall, enjoying the solace of a short pipe, exerted himself to look round and add his comment. “Well,” he remarked, "he may ha' done it, an' I wunnot stick out as he did na; but if it wur na fur the circumstantyal evidence I would na ha' believed it." Floxham met him at the entrance with a message. "Haworth's sent fur thee," he said. "Where is he?"-coolly enough under the circumstances. "Sit down," he said. "I'd like to take a look at the chap who thought he could thrash Jem Haworth." But Murdoch did not obey him. "I suppose you have something to say to me," he said, " as you sent for me." He did not receive the answer he was prepared for. Jem Haworth burst into a loud laugh. "By George! you're a plucky chap," he said, "if you are an American." Murdoch's blood rose again. "Say what you have to say," he demanded. "I can guess what it is; but, let me tell you, I should do the same thing again. It was no fault of mine that I was in yourpath "If I'd been such a fool as not to see that,' put in Haworth, with a smile grimmer than before," do you think I couldn't have smashed every bone in your body?" Then Murdoch comprehended how matters were to stand between them. "Getten th' bag?" asked Floxham when he went back to his work. "No." "Tha hannot?" with animation. "Well, dang me!" At the close of the day, as they were preparing to leave their work, Haworth presented himself in the engine-room, looking perhaps a trifle awkward. "See here," he said to Murdoch, “I've heard something to-day as I've missed hearing before, somehow. The inventing chap was your father?" "Yes." He stood in an uneasy attitude, looking out of the window as if he half expected to see the frail, tall figure again. The engineer chuckled in sly exultation. "He's in the office. He didna say nowt about givin' thee th' bag; but tha may as well mak' up thy moind to it. Tha wert" pretty cheeky, tha knows, considerin' he wur th' mester." "Look here," with some heat; "do you mean to say you think I was in the wrong? Am I to let the fellow insult me and not resent it-touch me with his foot, as if I were a dog?" "Tha'rt particular, my lad," dryly. "An' tha does na know as much o' th' mester koind as most folk." But the next instant he flung down the tool he held in his hand. "Dom thee!" he cried. "I loike thy pluck. Stick to it, lad,-mesters or no mesters." As Murdoch crossed the threshold of his room, Jem Haworth turned in his seat and greeted him with a short nod not altogether combative. Then he leaned forward, with his arms upon the table before him. "I saw him once, poor chap," he said, and he stuck to me, somehow. I'd meant to stand by him if he'd come here. I'd have liked to do him a good turn." He turned to Murdoch suddenly and with a hint of embarrassment in his off-hand air. "Come up and have dinner with me," he said. "It's devilish dull spending a chap's nights in a big place like mine. Come up with me now." The visit was scarcely to Murdoch's taste, but it was easier to accept than to refuse. He had seen the house often, and had felt some slight curiosity as to its inside appear ance. There was only one other house in Broxton which approached it in size and splendor, and this stood empty at present, its owner being abroad. Broxton itself was a sharp Murdoch made an uneasy gesture of assent. "And it never came to aught?" "No." and dingy little town, whose inhabitants | that notion of his ?" he said once during were mostly foundry hands. It had grown the evening. up around the Works and increased with them. It had a small railway station, two or three public houses much patronized, and wore, somehow, an air of being utterly unconnected with the outside world which much belied it. Motives of utility, a desire to be on the spot, and a general disregard for un-business-like attractions had led Haworth to build his house on the outskirts of the town. "When I want a spree," he had said, "I can go to Manchester or London, and I'm not particular about the rest on it. I want to be nigh the place." It was a big house and a handsome one. It was one of the expressions of the man's success, and his pride was involved in it. He spent money on it lavishly, and, having completed it, went to live a desolate life among its grandeurs. The inhabitants of the surrounding villages, which were simple and agricultural, regarded Broxton with frank distaste, and "Haworth's" with horror. Haworth's smoke polluted their atmosphere. Haworth's hands made weekly raids upon their towns and rendered themselves obnoxious in their streets. The owner of the Works, his mode of life, his defiance of opinion, and his coarse sins, were supposed to be tabooed subjects. The man was ignored, and left to his visitors from the larger towns,-visitors who occasionally presented themselves to be entertained at his house in a fashion of his own, and who were a greater scandal than all the rest. 66 They hate me," said Haworth to his visitor, as they sat down to dinner; "they hate me, the devil take 'em. I'm not moral enough for 'em-not moral enough!" with a shout of laughter. There was something unreal to his companion in the splendor with which the great fellow was surrounded. The table was covered with a kind of banquet; servants moved about noiselessly as he talked and laughed; the appointments of the room were rich and in good taste. "Oh! it's none of my work," he said, seeing Murdoch glance about him. "I wasn't fool enough to try to do it myself. I gave it into the hands of them as knew how." He was loud-tongued and boastful; but he showed good-nature enough and a rough wit, and it was also plain that he knew his own strength and weaknesses. "Thirty year' your father was at work on "He died?" "Yes." He thrust his hands deep in his pockets, and gave the young fellow a keen look. "Why don't you take the thing up yourself?" he said. "There may be something in it, after all, and you're a long-headed chap." Murdoch started from his chair. He took an excited turn across the room before he knew what he was doing. "I never will," he said, "so help me God! The thing's done with and shut out of the world." When he went away, Haworth accompanied him to the door. At the threshold he turned about. "How do you like the look of things?" he demanded. "I should be hard to please if I did not like the look of them," was the answer. "Well, then, come again. You're welcome. I have it all to myself. I'm not favorite enow with the gentry to bring any on 'em here. You're free to come when th' fit takes you." CHAPTER VI. MISS FFRENCH. It was considered, after this, a circumstance illustrative of Haworth's peculiarities that he had taken to himself a protégé from among the "hands "; that said protégé was an eccentric young fellow who was sometimes spoken of as being scarcely as bright as he should be; that he occasionally dined or supped with Haworth; that he spent numberless evenings with him, and that he read his books, which would not have been much used otherwise. Murdoch lived his regular, unemotional life, in happy ignorance of these rumors. It was true that he gradually fell into the habit of going to Haworth's house, and also of reading his books. Indeed, if the truth were told, these had been his attraction. "I've no use for 'em," said Haworth, candidly, on showing him his library. "Get into 'em, if you've a fancy for 'em." His fancy for them was strong enough to bring him to the place again and again. He found books he had wanted, but never hoped to possess. The library, it may be | admitted, was not of Jem Haworth's selection, and, indeed, this gentleman's fancy for his new acquaintance was not a little increased by a certain shrewd admiration for an intellectual aptness which might be turned to practical account. "You tackle 'em as if you were used to 'em," he used to say. "I'd give something solid myself if I could do the same. There's what's against me many a time-knowing naught of books, and having to fight my way rough and ready." From the outset of this acquaintance, Murdoch's position at the Works had been an easier one. It became understood that Haworth would stand by him, and that he must be treated with a certain degree of respect. Greater latitude was given him, and better pay, and though he remained in the engine-room, other and more responsible work frequently fell into his hands. He went on in the even tenor of his way, uncommunicative and odd as ever. He still presented himself ahead of time, and labored with the unnecessary, absorbed ardor of an enthusiast, greatly to the distaste The scoffer bestowed upon him one thunderstruck glance, opened his mouth, shut it, and retired in disgust. "Theer's a chap," he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, on returning to his companions, "theer's a chap as says he's fond o' work-fond on it!" with dramatic scorn. "Blast his eyes! Fond on it!" With Floxham he had always stood well, though even Floxham's regard was tempered with a slight private contempt for peculiarities not easily tolerated by the practical mind. "Th' chap's getten gumption enow, i' his way," he said to Haworth. "If owt breaks down or gets out o' gear, he's aw theer; but theer is na a lad on th' place as could na cheat him out o' his eye-teeth." His reputation for being a "queer chap queer chap" was greatly increased by the simplicity and seclusion of his life. The house in which he lived with his mother had the atmosphere of a monastic cell. As she had devoted herself to her husband, the woman devoted herself to her son, watching him with a hungry eye. He was given to taking long stretches of walks, and appearing in distant villages, book in hand, and with apparently no ulterior object in view. His holidays were nearly all spent out-ofdoors in such rambles as these. The country people began to know his tall figure and long stride, and to regard him with the friendly toleration of strength for weakness. "They say i' Broxton," it was said among them, "as his feyther deed daft, and it's no wonder th' young chap's getten queer ways. He's good-natured enow, though i' a simple road." His good-nature manifested itself in more than one way which called forth comment. To his early friendship for Janey he remained faithful. The child interested him, and the sentiment developed as it grew older. It was quite natural that, after a few months acquaintance, he should drop in at the household of her parents on Saturday afternoon, as he was passing. It was the week's half-holiday and a fine day, and he had nothing else to do. These facts, in connection with that of the Briarley's cottage presenting itself, were reasons enough for going in. It occurred to him, as he entered the narrow strip of garden before the door, that the children of the neighborhood must have congregated to hold high carnival. Groups made dirt-pies; clusters played "bobber and kibbs;" select parties settled differences of opinions with warmth of feeling and elevation of voice; a youth of tender years, in corduroys which shone with friction, stood upon his head in one corner, calmly but not haughtily presenting to the blue vault of heaven a pair of ponderous, brass-finished clogs. "What dost want?" he demanded, without altering his position. "Th' missis isn't in." "I'm going in to see Janey," explainedMurdoch. He found the little kitchen shining with the Saturday "cleaning up." The flagged floor as glaringly spotless as pipe-clay and sandstone could make it, the brass ovenhandles and tin pans in a condition to put an intruder out of countenance, the fire replenished, and Janey sitting on a stool on the hearth enveloped in an apron of her mother's, and reading laboriously aloud. "Eh! dear me!" she exclaimed. "It's yo'-an' I am na fit to be seen. I wur settin' down to rest a bit. I've been doin' th' cleanin' aw day, an' I wur real done fur." "Never mind that," said Murdoch. | th' vestry, an' hoo's gone theer an' takken "That's all right enough." He cast about him for a safe position to take-one in which he could stretch his legs and avoid damaging the embarrassing purity of the floor. Finally he settled upon a small print-covered sofa and balanced himself carefully upon its extreme edge and the backs of his heels, notwithstanding Janey's civil protestations. "Dunnot yo' moind th' floor," she said. "Yo' needn't. Set yo' down comfortable." "Oh, I'm all right," answered Murdoch, with calm good cheer. "This is comfortable enough. What's that you were reading?" Janey settled down upon her stool with a sigh at once significant of relief and a readiness to indulge in friendly confidence. "It's a book I getten fro' th' Broxton Chapel Sunday Skoo'. Its th' Mem-me-m-o-i-r-s "Memoirs," responded Murdoch. "Memoyers of Mary Ann Gibbs." Unfortunately her visitor was not thoroughly posted on the subject of the Broxton Chapel literature. He cast about him mentally, but with small success. "I don't seem to have heard of it before," was the conclusion he arrived at. "Hannot yo'? Well, it's a noice book, an' theer's lots more like it in th' skoo' libery-aw about Sunday skoo' scholars as has consumption an' th' loike an' reads th' boible to foalk an' dees. They aw on 'em dee." "Oh," doubtfully, but still with respect. "It's not very cheerful, is it?" Janey shook her head with an expression of mature resignation. "Eh no! they're none on 'em cheerfulbut they're noice to read. This here un now-she had th' asthma an' summat wrong wi' her legs, an' she knowed aw th' boible through aside o' th' hymn-book, an' she'd sing aw th' toime when she could breathe fur th' asthma, an' tell foak as if they did na go an' do likewise they'd go to burnin' hell wheer th' fire is na quenched an' th' worms dyeth not." "It can't have been very pleasant for the friends," was her companion's comment. But there was nothing jocose about his manner. He was balancing himself seriously on the edge of the hard little sofa and regarding her with speculative interest. "Where's your mother?" he asked next. "Hoo's gone to th' chapel," was the answer. "Theer's a mothers' meetin' in th' babby wi' her. Th' rest o' th' childer is playin' out at th' front." He glanced out of the door. "Those those are not all yours?" he said, thunderstruck. Aye, they are they. Eh!" drawing a long breath, "but is na there a lot on 'em? Theer's eleven an' I've nussed 'em nigh ivvery one." He turned toward the door again. "There seems to be a great many of them," he remarked. "You must have had a great deal to do." "That I ha'. I've wished mony a time I'd been a rich lady. Theer's that daughter o' Ffrench's now. Eh! I'd like to ha' bin her." "I never heard of her before," he answered. "Who is she, and why do you choose her?" "Cos she's so hansum. She's that theer grand she looks loike she thowt ivvery body else wur dirt. I've seen women as wur bigger, an' wore more cloas at onct, but I nivver seed none as grand as she is. I nivver seed her but onct. She coom her' wi' her feyther fur two or three week' afore he went to furrin parts, an' she wur caught i' th' rain one day an' stopped in here a bit. She dropped her hankcher an' mother's getten it yet. It's nigh aw lace. Would yo' loike to see it?" hospitably. "Yes," feeling his lack of enthusiasm something of a fault. "I dare say I should." From the depths of a drawer which she opened with a vigorous effort and some skill in retaining her balance, she produced something pinned up in a fragment of old linen. This she bore to her guest and unpinning it, displayed the handkerchief. "Tha can tak' it in thy hond an' smell it," she said graciously. "It's getten scent on it." Murdoch took it in his hand, scarcely knowing what else to do. He knew nothing of women and their finery. He regarded the fragrant bit of lace and cambric seriously, and read in one corner the name "Rachel Ffrench," written in delicate letters. Then he returned it to Janey. "Thank you," he said, "it is very nice." Janey bore it back perhaps with some slight inward misgivings as to the warmth of its reception, but also with a tempering recollection of the ways of "men-foak." When she came back to her stool, she changed the subject. |