calm, she had learned to be cold and hard mind, that if I should not do this thing, this as she was pure and just. soul would be required of me." And then she went out, closing the door after her. She had not far to go,-only a few rods into another street,-only to the cottage where she had seen the child this As she sat before the fire in silence she was battling with herself. It was hard to understand. The stained, lost creature's child had lived, perhaps, to face her wretched mother's wretched fall, and, per-evening-Janet Ayres's child. haps, to fall and sin, and flaunt and die, with There was a light burning in the room scarcely a breathing space of innocent child- at the front of the house, when she reachhood to remember in her misery. Her owned it, and as she entered the gate she saw little one, who had seemed the only breath of pure air left in the world about her, had been torn from her in the hour of her greatest anguish. It was hard to understand. And then her thoughts went back to the face of the child she had seen; such a pretty creature, with its innocent boldness and the summer blue eyes, which had so stung her. A sudden thought flashing upon her made her start before she had been thinking of it two minutes. The blood mounted to her cheeks. "Nay, nay!" she cried out, as if uncontrollably. "Not that; I could not do that. Its eyes would mock me every hour." But she had no sooner spoken so than she turned pale again, knowing that it was this thing she must do, and no other. To such a woman there could be only right and wrong; and here, in an instant, the right flashed upon her, and left her no escape. The small, bold hand plucked at her again; but it plucked at her heart. Yet it might have plucked at her heart forever, if it had not been for this sudden conviction. She had never done a willing wrong in her life, and she had never shirked the right. It was this thing she must do, and no other. She did not stay to ponder long. She rose from her seat and went about her household tasks. She prepared her usual simple evening meal, and having partook of it, set the room in order. It was her way to be quiet and orderly, and nothing could have made her otherwise. It was quite dark when she had completed her preparations for the morrow, but she evidently intended going out, for she went into the adjoining room and came out again with a shawl thrown over her head and shoulders. Then she opened the door, and looked out into the night. "She may refuse me," she said, in a low, thoughtful voice; "but I must still make an effort. I cannot understand why it is, and yet truly it seems borne upon my through the window the woman she had come to seek. She was sitting alone, apparently doing nothing, sitting in a strange, listless attitude, her arms folded upon the bare table, her face resting heavily upon them. For one moment Phillis paused. Something in the woman's posture struck her with a sudden sense of discomfort, and made her hesitate-suggesting to her, however faintly, that even this brazen creature might have her misery also. She stepped to the door, and standing upon the threshold, hesitated for a second again. Should she knock and risk being refused admission? No, she dare not. The next minute the door opened, and Janet Ayres raised her head slowly, and looked towards it. A slight figure stood at the entrance, and as the gray shawl slipped aside, it showed a face that made her start. Nay," said Phillis, calmly; "Phillis. Denham." The woman laughed. · "Oh," said she, so that s it, is it? Well, happen th'art in th' right. I dunnot see that it matters so much; I dunnot see as owt matters mysen. Have it thy own way." And then sharply: "What dost ta want here?" Phillis stepped forward to the table, and laid her hand upon it. "I could only have come to thee for one thing," she said. "The Lord has given me a work to do. I saw thy child to-day, and I have come to make an appeal to thee. I have come to ask thee to let me save the little one from being what her mother is." She had no pity on the wretched woman, but it was because she was cold, not because she was cruel. "If the Lord spares her I want to keep her life pure," she said. Janet Ayres stared at her in blank amaze. What!" she cried out." Tha wants to tak' th' child-that child?" ening in her voice. "Wilt thou give me the child, and keep the man?" "Th' mon!" cried the woman, with a fierce sneer. "I want neither th' mon nor child. Tha may tak' both." "Nay, but I will not take them both," answered Phillis, a shrill tone breaking from her, quiet as she tried to seem; "I will not take them both. William Henders chose between me and thee, and he chose thee, and he may stick to thee. He is naught to me, but the child I want; and if thee has woman's blood in thy body, thou canst not say me nay. Thee knows what thy own life has been; does thee want that little one's to be like it? has fed her with thy own strength-unless such as thee are different from other women; dost thou want to make her curse thee? Nay, but thou hast even a blacker soul than I fancied, if thou dost.” Thee . Then Janet Ayres laughed a laugh even scornful of the stainless, righteous, injured woman, who so scorned and taunted her. "Tha art a good Christian, Phillis Henders," she said; "aye, but tha art a good Christian; religion and such loike were bred i' thy bones and comes out i' thy flesh. I never knew a Methody yet as didn't show th' breed, an' I never saw a safe soul yet as would na' gi' a lost one a help down th' hill. Look here," her voice shrilling and her face flushing scarlet, "I'm one of th' lost ones mysen, but I never gave a push to either lost or saved yet; an' so help me God,-if God has owt to do with such loike as me,-if I could hurt an' humble thee, even thee, with thy hard words an' thy pride,-if I could crush an' humble thee before my face this minute, in raisin' my finger, I would na raise it; nay, I would na.'" And she dropped her head upon her arms again, her excitement ending in a passionate burst of sobs and tears. "Tak' th' child," she cried, "tak' her an' keep her! Teach her what her mother is, an' train her up to point her finger at her! Aye, I would be willin' fur that, if that would save her-aye, an' thank th' God as has nowt to do with such as me." "Repent!" said Janet Ayres. "Repent thysen. Hast tha nowt to repent on? No, such as thee never has; tha'rt on the narrow path fro' first to last; it wur made fur such as thee. Dunnot tell me to repent." Phillis's hand trembled a little. That sense of discomfort grew upon her strongly, and it was this lost creature's words that stung her. "I did not come here to contend with thee," she said. "I came to plead for the child." "Will Henders's child," put in the woman, with a miserable effort at a taunt. "Will Henders's child," said Phillis, without a change in her voice. "Will thee give it up to me?" Janet Ayres lifted her face with a strange irony in her smile. 66 Tha art na askin' much," she said. "I ask thee for a human soul," answered Phillis. 66 "Aye," said Janet Ayres, "but such as me dunnot know much about that theer. Tha art askin' me fur all as I've gotten i' th' earth-thee as niver had a child o' thy own." "Thou art mistaken," said Phillis, "I had a child who died." "Tha!" exclaimed Janet. But Phillis stopped her with a gesture. "It died," she said, "and it belongedpoor little one!-to a past that is all over. But this child of thine is not so safe." "If that is true I can trust thee better," said the woman, "not but what I believe tha'd do reet by th' little un, hard as tha Its thy way to do reet." art. There was a pause for a moment, and then she looked up. "I do not see what sent thee here to tempt me to-neet," she said. "I have often thowt o' this, but I niver thowt as I've done to-neet. I niver thowt as I were thinkin' when tha' came in. Aye Janie, little wench-Janie !" with a gush of tears. "Come wi' me," she said abruptly to Phillis, rising and taking the lamp from the table. Phillis followed her across the room to the shaded corner where the child's cot stood, and there they paused. "Look," said Janet Ayres, holding the light over the pink, flushed baby face. Phillis did not speak; the eyes that had mocked her so were closed; but it was not easy to forget the pang they had given her. If I gi' her up to thee," said Janet, “I shall gi' her up foriver. Her way will not be my way either now nor-nor after-if theer is an after. If I gi' her up to thee I shanna do it by halves. I shall gi' her up to be led to heaven while I drift down to hell. Aye Janie! Janie!" dropping upon her knees, "thou'lt be further away fro' me then e'en than tha art now-but better one than two-better one than two-better me than thee, my lamb, for tha has na a spot upon thee." Her weeping shook even Phillis Denham, though it was neither loud nor long. It did not even waken the child though it seemed as if the struggle tore her very soul. But suddenly she got up, and taking the little one from its pillow, kissed it once, twice, and placed it in Phillis's arms. "Tak' it away," she said breathlessly. "I am na of thy blood. I canna keep up long. For God's sake tak' her out o' my sight before a' the strength's wrung out o' me. I gi' her up, I tell thee-I gi'-her up foriver." And stricken dumb by the sight of the agony in the mother's face, almost before she could realize that her strange request had indeed been granted, she found herself out in the night holding the child in her arms! It was not many days before the women at the Mills were gossiping among themselves concerning what little they knew of the story of Janet Ayres's child. Phillis Denham had taken it to "fetch up," as they put it, though how she had gained possession of it was a mystery. The two women came and went as usual, but there was no intercourse between them; each going her separate way when work was over, Janet to her desolate house, Phillis to her cottage and the child, who was cared for in her absence by a woman whom she had taken into her house for the purpose. Since the night Phillis carried the child away in her arms, Janet had persistently avoided her. Evidently she had not meant to do the thing by halves when she said she gave the child up for ever. As to the little one herself, she had soon become accustomed to her new surroundings, though the novelty disturbed her at first. With Phillis she made friends in a way of her own-strangely enough, without a touch of baby effusiveness. They were the best of friends, but nothing nearer. Perhaps Phillis's way was not exactly the way to win a baby's heart -perhaps she was too calm and quiet, or perhaps some more subtle influence held her apart from this tiny creature; but, however that might be, she often felt a novel pang that she was held apart. At first she felt it but slightly, but as time went on, and the child crept into her inner heart, the feeling became stronger. How could the child fail to creep into her heart. She was a woman after all, and her slighted love for handsome Will Henders had been a very strong one. She had given up all for him: the friendship of her people, the affection of her friends-all she had possessed. She had looked upon the great sorrow of her life as a just punishment for her defections, but, though she had cut herself off from this man whom she had so loved, she had never forgotten him for an hour-his physical beauty, his dashing ways, so unlike the ways of the grave young friends who had admired her, the shade of poetic romance in his admiration for her pure, high, self-contained style of beauty -she never forgot one attraction. And as this little creature played about the room in her quaint fashion, she fell into the habit of watching her with a curious feelingalmost a yearning. Nay, more than once it was a feeling so strong that it half angered her. The summer blue eyes mocked her with their haunting likeness to other eyes as warmly blue; lifting themselves to her quiet face, they stung her to the heart. They made her restless, less calm, less coldly content with her hard, unloved, unloving lot. She found old yearnings she had thought subdued coming back to her, conquered pains, long-struggled-against memories, and it may be that her secret suffering softened her. Before the child had been with Phillis long, Janet Ayres was missing. She was absent from her loom one morning, and a woman who was her neighbor said that she had shut up her house, and gone away. That was all that was known by outsiders, but Phillis knew a little more. The night before the woman's disappearance there had come a light tap at her window, and going outside to see what the summons meant, she had found Janet Ayres standing as if waiting for her. 'Aw'm goin' away," she had said abruptly. Phillis's heart beat somewhat more quickly. Had she repented of her decision, and come to claim the child? "Why?" she asked. The woman twisted a corner of her shawl around her finger, and hesitated. "I ha'a reason," she answered, half doggedly. "An' it wunnot work no ill-it | may work good; but that's neither heer nor theer. I come to speak to thee about-th' child." 66 -- faltered Phillis 66 Thee are notthee does not meanJanet Ayres stopped her. "I dunnot mean no harm, I tell yo," she said, "so I canna mean that. I am na goin' to hurt it. I towd thee I'd gi'en it up furiver. I only want to know-to hear a word about it-I hanna heerd a word sin that neet. I want to know how its doin'." “It is well,” said Phillis, "and happy." There was a moment's silence, in which the nervous hand dragged at the shawl. Then the wretched creature lifted, in halfashamed fashion, her eyes to those of Phillis's. "Has she-forgotten?" she faltered. And that moment the shawl was dropped, her hands went up to her face, and she bust into wild, yet almost silent, weeping. "Dunnot tell me," she whispered, in the midst of her sobs. Dunnot tell me; I know wi'out askin'. I dunnot see why I asked at a'. She were only a baby. Let me be a minnet." 66 So Phillis waited, a curious contest going on in her mind, as she watched the shaking, shrinking form. She had not forgiven this woman yet; but she was beginning vaguely to recognize the stained, bruised humanity, and thus to doubt her own stern, just self. What if she was wrong after all? What if she had refused what it was her duty to have given? When the woman looked up again, she saw in the eyes of her enemy a troubled questioning. "If thee would like to see the child," Phillis began. The old doggedness returned to the to the face. "I did na come for that," was the answer. "I dare na enter; I dare na tempt mysen'. Happen' th' time 'll come, -though I dunnot know" She stopped and took from the bundle slung upon her arm a little package, handing it to Phillis with that touch of awkward shamefacedness in her air. "It's sumetin' as I made mysen'" she said, “—a dress and a few oddments. She-she'll niver know who made 'em, so they canna harm her if you'll let her wear 'em," ending in a choked voice. "There!" she said, suddenly, "that's a',-so I may as well be goin'. Good neet,—if tha'll tak' good neet fro' such as me. And she turned away. Six months before Phillis Denham had spurned this lost woman; and nowHow was it that this child had given them something in common-made them in some sense akin? A sudden impulse made her move forward and touch Janet Ayres with her hand lightly. "I do not quite know what I owt to say to thee," she said. "I do not know why I feel that I have something to say, but if I have been wrong and-and hard, I ask thee to forgive me. I have needed pity; I need pity now. I will deal tenderly by thy child. Good-bye. God help thee; God help us both." And so they had gone their separate ways. * * * * * Who at Grantley has forgotten the fire at Grantley Mills? Who will ever forget it who lived in the generation in which it occurred? The fire! they call it to this day, though there were fires before and have been since. "It was th' oil that did it," the old mill-hands say: "Yo see, when th' wenches oiled th' looms th' cans dripped, an' there it were. Th' floors soaked through an' through enow to set th' place afire,-an' the' first spark did fur it, an' left no help. A' th' engines in Lanca'shire could na' ha' saved it. An' so it went." As for Phillis Denham, to the last hour of dim old age,—if such old age should come to her, the fearful day would be her most vivid memory. She had come down to her work in the morning in a heavy mood. She had been disturbed the night before strangely, and she had not been able to overcome her excitement. Sitting before the fire with the child in her arms, she had been startled by a sound at the window, and turning suddenly, she had caught sight of a vanishing face-a face that had plainly been looking in upon her and her fire-lit room. The sight made her heart leap and then almost stand still. She could not force herself to believe it fancy, and yet when she had opened the door. there had been no one in sight up or down the moon-lit street. This was not all. So strangely nervous and excitable was she, that in passing the office she had been startled again by the mere sight of a tall man standing at the desk, with his back towards her, because his figure had seemed familiar. "Did tha see th' new overseer?" she heard a woman say, as she took her place; and her companion answered: "Aye, to be sure, an' a good lookin' chap he is, too." It was not more than two hours after, that a girl at the loom next Phillis's looked up suddenly. "What's that?" she said. "Th' bell ringin'?" And almost the next instant, with a paling face: "Th' engines stoppin'," she cried; sumat's up, wenches." They were at the top story of the huge building, and so the alarm did not reach them until the stopping of the looms, but a minute later a puff of smoke and a sound of hurrying feet and women's shrieks below told all the truth. "It's fire!" shrieked the girl. "It's fire!" shrieked another and another, until voice upon voice took up the cry. "Fire! Fire! Fire!" And every desperate creature in the great room rushed towards the narrow stairway, with no thought but the hope of being first. But the stairway was crowded already, and the heat and smoke were rolling upward, and beating back those who were at the front, while the rest were fighting on behind. If the fire had been above they would have been safer; but it roared below and crackled, and poured out thick smoke from the oil-soaked flooring, and so choked and blinded the mass of struggling creatures that they were panic-stricken. They fought, and strove, and shrieked, and prayed, until some fell under foot, and were trampled down, and some hung wedged in the midst, neither able to move one way or the other. Phillis had been carried with the crowd. The first instinct of self-preservation had made her follow the rest to the door, and then she had seen the mistake they all made, when it was too late. She had no control over herself; the shrieking women bore her with them until they reached the next room, when she was crushed against the open door, and through it, and flung against a woman who had shared her fate. In the terror of the moment Phillis scarcely saw the woman's face, but the woman had seen her's, and caught at her with a horrible cry. It was Janet Ayres. Phillis, all bruised and shuddering, stared at her as if she had been a spirit. They cannot hear our voices," cried Phillis; "and the smoke hides us.' They waited for a while, and then tried again and then again, and even again, and then there came a fearful crash and such a burst of shrieks that women who were safe fainted, and men turned sick as death. The staircase had fallen, and with it its human burden. Phillis sank down upon her knees, praying aloud. Her companion sprang at the window again like a wild animal, waving her arms frantically through the broken panes. "We canna burn heer," she shrieked. "They mun see us.-Help, lads! Help, help!" And then to Phillis: "Shut th' door an' keep th' smoke out, or we shall choke." And when Phillis had obeyed her: "Come here, and help me t' mak' 'em hear." And the terror in their voices made them so wild and shrill that it was not many minutes before they were heard, even in the midst of the roar of flames and voices. Some woman in the crowd heard them first, and, looking up, saw the waving hands. "Thee !-Janet Ayres!" she said, just as "Eh, lads," she cried, "God help us! she had done when they met upon the-thar's some wenches on t' third flight crying fur help, an' their hands is all cut staircase. ་ |