across the farmlands of the valleyside to
Bunker's Hill, branching off there, and
running north to Beggarlee and Selby, that
looks over at Crich and the hills of
Derbyshire: six mines like black studs on
the countryside, linked by a loop of fine
chain, the railway.

To accommodate the regiments of miners,
Carston, Waite and Co. built the Squares,
great quadrangles of dwellings on the
hillside of Bestwood, and then, in the brook
valley, on the site of Hell Row, they erected
the Bottoms.

The Bottoms consisted of six blocks of
miners' dwellings, two rows of three, like
the dots on a blank-six domino, and twelve
houses in a block. This double row of
dwellings sat at the foot of the rather sharp
slope from Bestwood, and looked out, from
the attic windows at least, on the slow climb
of the valley towards Selby.

The houses themselves were substantial
and very decent. One could walk all round,
seeing little front gardens with auriculas and
saxifrage in the shadow of the bottom
block, sweet-williams and pinks in the
sunny top block; seeing neat front windows,
little porches, little privet hedges, and
dormer windows for the attics. But that was
outside; that was the view on to the
uninhabited parlours of all the colliers'
wives. The dwelling-room, the kitchen, was
at the back of the house, facing inward
between the blocks, looking at a scrubby
back garden, and then at the ash-pits. And
between the rows, between the long lines of
ash-pits, went the alley, where the children
played and the women gossiped and the
men smoked. So, the actual conditions of
living in the Bottoms, that was so well built
and that looked so nice, were quite
unsavoury because people must live in the
kitchen, and the kitchens opened on to that

"Can I have my dinner, mother?" he cried,
rushing in with his cap on. "'Cause it begins
at half-past one, the man says so."

"You can have your dinner as soon as it's
done," replied the mother.

"Isn't it done?" he cried, his blue eyes
staring at her in indignation. "Then I'm goin'
be-out it."

"You'll do nothing of the sort. It will be done
in five minutes. It is only half-past twelve."

"They'll be beginnin'," the boy half cried,
half shouted.

"You won't die if they do," said the mother.
"Besides, it's only half-past twelve, so
you've a full hour."

The lad began hastily to lay the table, and
directly the three sat down. They were
eating batter-pudding and jam, when the
boy jumped off his chair and stood perfectly
stiff. Some distance away could be heard
the first small braying of a merry-go-round,
and the tooting of a horn. His face quivered
as he looked at his mother.

"I told you!" he said, running to the dresser
for his cap.

"Take your pudding in your hand—and it's
only five past one, so you were wrong—you
haven't got your twopence," cried the
mother in a breath.

The boy came back, bitterly disappointed,
for his twopence, then went off without a
word.

"I want to go, I want to go," said Annie,
beginning to cry.

"Well, and you shall go, whining, wizzening

she explained the pictures, in a sort of story,
to which he listened as if spellbound. He
would not leave her. All the time he stuck
close to her, bristling with a small boy's
pride of her. For no other woman looked
such a lady as she did, in her little black
bonnet and her cloak. She smiled when she
saw women she knew. When she was tired
she said to her son:

"Well, are you coming now, or later?"

"Are you goin' a'ready?" he cried, his face
full of reproach.

"Already? It is past four, I know."

"What are you goin' a'ready for?" he
lamented.

"You needn't come if you don't want," she
said.

And she went slowly away with her little girl,
whilst her son stood watching her, cut to the
heart to let her go, and yet unable to leave
the wakes. As she crossed the open ground
in front of the Moon and Stars she heard
men shouting, and smelled the beer, and
hurried a little, thinking her husband was
probably in the bar.

At about half-past six her son came home,
tired now, rather pale, and somewhat
wretched. He was miserable, though he did
not know it, because he had let her go
alone. Since she had gone, he had not
enjoyed his wakes.

"Has my dad been?" he asked.

"No," said the mother.

"He's helping to wait at the Moon and Stars.
I seed him through that black tin stuff wi'
holes in, on the window, wi' his sleeves

made her feel as if she were buried alive.

The front garden was a small square with a
privet hedge. There she stood, trying to
soothe herself with the scent of flowers and
the fading, beautiful evening. Opposite her
small gate was the stile that led uphill, under
the tall hedge between the burning glow of
the cut pastures. The sky overhead
throbbed and pulsed with light. The glow
sank quickly off the field; the earth and the
hedges smoked dusk. As it grew dark, a
ruddy glare came out on the hilltop, and out
of the glare the diminished commotion of
the fair.

Sometimes, down the trough of darkness
formed by the path under the hedges, men
came lurching home. One young man
lapsed into a run down the steep bit that
ended the hill, and went with a crash into the
stile. Mrs. Morel shuddered. He picked
himself up, swearing viciously, rather
pathetically, as if he thought the stile had
wanted to hurt him.

She went indoors, wondering if things were
never going to alter. She was beginning by
now to realise that they would not. She
seemed so far away from her girlhood, she
wondered if it were the same person
walking heavily up the back garden at the
Bottoms as had run so lightly up the
breakwater at Sheerness ten years before.

"What have I to do with it?" she said to
herself. "What have I to do with all this? Even
the child I am going to have! It doesn't seem
as if I were taken into account."

Sometimes life takes hold of one, carries
the body along, accomplishes one's
history, and yet is not real, but leaves
oneself as it were slurred over.

"I wait," Mrs. Morel said to herself—"I wait,

'Tha'd better ma'e sure it's a good un,
Walt.' An' so, yer see, I knowed it was. He's
a nice chap, is Bill Hodgkisson, e's a nice
chap!"

"A man will part with anything so long as
he's drunk, and you're drunk along with
him," said Mrs. Morel.

"Eh, tha mucky little 'ussy, who's drunk, I
sh'd like ter know?" said Morel. He was
extraordinarily pleased with himself,
because of his day's helping to wait in the
Moon and Stars. He chattered on.

Mrs. Morel, very tired, and sick of his
babble, went to bed as quickly as possible,
while he raked the fire.

Mrs. Morel came of a good old burgher
family, famous independents who had
fought with Colonel Hutchinson, and who
remained stout Congregationalists. Her
grandfather had gone bankrupt in the lace-
market at a time when so many lace-
manufacturers were ruined in Nottingham.
Her father, George Coppard, was an
engineer—a large, handsome, haughty man,
proud of his fair skin and blue eyes, but
more proud still of his integrity. Gertrude
resembled her mother in her small build. But
her temper, proud and unyielding, she had
from the Coppards.

George Coppard was bitterly galled by his
own poverty. He became foreman of the
engineers in the dockyard at Sheerness.
Mrs. Morel—Gertrude—was the second
daughter. She favoured her mother, loved
her mother best of all; but she had the
Coppards' clear, defiant blue eyes and
their broad brow. She remembered to have
hated her father's overbearing manner
towards her gentle, humorous, kindly-
souled mother. She remembered running
over the breakwater at Sheerness and

voice rang with defiance. "If I were a man,
nothing would stop me."

She held her head erect. He was rather
timid before her.

"But my father's so stiff-necked. He means
to put me into the business, and I know he'll
do it."

"But if you're a MAN?" she had cried.

"Being a man isn't everything," he replied,
frowning with puzzled helplessness.

Now, as she moved about her work at the
Bottoms, with some experience of what
being a man meant, she knew that it was
NOT everything.

At twenty, owing to her health, she had left
Sheerness. Her father had retired home to
Nottingham. John Field's father had been
ruined; the son had gone as a teacher in
Norwood. She did not hear of him until, two
years later, she made determined inquiry.
He had married his landlady, a woman of
forty, a widow with property.

And still Mrs. Morel preserved John Field's
Bible. She did not now believe him to be—
Well, she understood pretty well what he
might or might not have been. So she
preserved his Bible, and kept his memory
intact in her heart, for her own sake. To her
dying day, for thirty-five years, she did not
speak of him.

When she was twenty-three years old, she
met, at a Christmas party, a young man
from the Erewash Valley. Morel was then
twenty-seven years old. He was well set-
up, erect, and very smart. He had wavy
black hair that shone again, and a vigorous
black beard that had never been shaved.
His cheeks were ruddy, and his red, moist

barmaid—if it had been a marriage. Gertrude
Coppard watched the young miner as he
danced, a certain subtle exultation like
glamour in his movement, and his face the
flower of his body, ruddy, with tumbled
black hair, and laughing alike whatever
partner he bowed above. She thought him
rather wonderful, never having met anyone
like him. Her father was to her the type of all
men. And George Coppard, proud in his
bearing, handsome, and rather bitter; who
preferred theology in reading, and who
drew near in sympathy only to one man, the
Apostle Paul; who was harsh in
government, and in familiarity ironic; who
ignored all sensuous pleasure:—he was very
different from the miner. Gertrude herself
was rather contemptuous of dancing; she
had not the slightest inclination towards that
accomplishment, and had never learned
even a Roger de Coverley. She was
puritan, like her father, high-minded, and
really stern. Therefore the dusky, golden
softness of this man's sensuous flame of
life, that flowed off his flesh like the flame
from a candle, not baffled and gripped into
incandescence by thought and spirit as her
life was, seemed to her something
wonderful, beyond her.

He came and bowed above her. A warmth
radiated through her as if she had drunk
wine.

"Now do come and have this one wi' me,"
he said caressively. "It's easy, you know.
I'm pining to see you dance."

She had told him before she could not
dance. She glanced at his humility and
smiled. Her smile was very beautiful. It
moved the man so that he forgot everything.

"No, I won't dance," she said softly. Her
words came clean and ringing.

"They dun though!" he protested naively.
"Tha niver seed such a way they get in. But
tha mun let me ta'e thee down some time,
an' tha can see for thysen."

She looked at him, startled. This was a new
tract of life suddenly opened before her.
She realised the life of the miners,
hundreds of them toiling below earth and
coming up at evening. He seemed to her
noble. He risked his life daily, and with
gaiety. She looked at him, with a touch of
appeal in her pure humility.

"Shouldn't ter like it?" he asked tenderly.
"'Appen not, it 'ud dirty thee."

She had never been "thee'd" and "thou'd"
before.

The next Christmas they were married, and
for three months she was perfectly happy:
for six months she was very happy.

He had signed the pledge, and wore the
blue ribbon of a tee-totaller: he was nothing
if not showy. They lived, she thought, in his
own house. It was small, but convenient
enough, and quite nicely furnished, with
solid, worthy stuff that suited her honest
soul. The women, her neighbours, were
rather foreign to her, and Morel's mother
and sisters were apt to sneer at her ladylike
ways. But she could perfectly well live by
herself, so long as she had her husband
close.

Sometimes, when she herself wearied of
love-talk, she tried to open her heart
seriously to him. She saw him listen
deferentially, but without understanding.
This killed her efforts at a finer intimacy, and
she had flashes of fear. Sometimes he was
restless of an evening: it was not enough for
him just to be near her, she realised. She
was glad when he set himself to little jobs.

"I thought—-" she began. He had told her he
had a good bit of money left over. But she
realised it was no use asking questions.
She sat rigid with bitterness and
indignation.

The next day she went down to see his
mother.

"Didn't you buy the furniture for Walter?" she
asked.

"Yes, I did," tartly retorted the elder woman.

"And how much did he give you to pay for
it?"

The elder woman was stung with fine
indignation.

"Eighty pound, if you're so keen on
knowin'," she replied.

"Eighty pounds! But there are forty-two
pounds still owing!"

"I can't help that."

"But where has it all gone?"

"You'll find all the papers, I think, if you
look—beside ten pound as he owed me, an'
six pound as the wedding cost down here."

"Six pounds!" echoed Gertrude Morel. It
seemed to her monstrous that, after her
own father had paid so heavily for her
wedding, six pounds more should have
been squandered in eating and drinking at
Walter's parents' house, at his expense.

"And how much has he sunk in his houses?"
she asked.

"His houses—which houses?"

"You don't dance yourself, do you, missis?"
asked her nearest neighbour, in October,
when there was great talk of opening a
dancing-class over the Brick and Tile Inn at
Bestwood.

"No—I never had the least inclination to," Mrs.
Morel replied.

"Fancy! An' how funny as you should ha'
married your Mester. You know he's quite a
famous one for dancing."

"I didn't know he was famous," laughed
Mrs. Morel.

"Yea, he is though! Why, he ran that dancing-
class in the Miners' Arms club-room for
over five year."

"Did he?"

"Yes, he did." The other woman was
defiant. "An' it was thronged every
Tuesday, and Thursday, an' Sat'day—an'
there WAS carryin's-on, accordin' to all
accounts."

This kind of thing was gall and bitterness to
Mrs. Morel, and she had a fair share of it.
The women did not spare her, at first; for
she was superior, though she could not help
it.

He began to be rather late in coming home.

"They're working very late now, aren't
they?" she said to her washer-woman.

"No later than they allers do, I don't think. But
they stop to have their pint at Ellen's, an'
they get talkin', an' there you are! Dinner
stone cold—an' it serves 'em right."

"But Mr. Morel does not take any drink."

little trouble when the man began to bully. A
little more, and the hard hands of the collier
hit the baby. Then Mrs. Morel loathed her
husband, loathed him for days; and he went
out and drank; and she cared very little what
he did. Only, on his return, she scathed him
with her satire.

The estrangement between them caused
him, knowingly or unknowingly, grossly to
offend her where he would not have done.

William was only one year old, and his
mother was proud of him, he was so pretty.
She was not well off now, but her sisters
kept the boy in clothes. Then, with his little
white hat curled with an ostrich feather, and
his white coat, he was a joy to her, the
twining wisps of hair clustering round his
head. Mrs. Morel lay listening, one Sunday
morning, to the chatter of the father and
child downstairs. Then she dozed off. When
she came downstairs, a great fire glowed in
the grate, the room was hot, the breakfast
was roughly laid, and seated in his
armchair, against the chimney-piece, sat
Morel, rather timid; and standing between
his legs, the child—cropped like a sheep,
with such an odd round poll—looking
wondering at her; and on a newspaper
spread out upon the hearthrug, a myriad of
crescent-shaped curls, like the petals of a
marigold scattered in the reddening
firelight.

Mrs. Morel stood still. It was her first baby.
She went very white, and was unable to
speak.

"What dost think o' 'im?" Morel laughed
uneasily.

She gripped her two fists, lifted them, and
came forward. Morel shrank back.

"I could kill you, I could!" she said. She

scene all her life, as one in which she had
suffered the most intensely.

This act of masculine clumsiness was the
spear through the side of her love for Morel.
Before, while she had striven against him
bitterly, she had fretted after him, as if he
had gone astray from her. Now she ceased
to fret for his love: he was an outsider to her.
This made life much more bearable.

Nevertheless, she still continued to strive
with him. She still had her high moral sense,
inherited from generations of Puritans. It
was now a religious instinct, and she was
almost a fanatic with him, because she
loved him, or had loved him. If he sinned,
she tortured him. If he drank, and lied, was
often a poltroon, sometimes a knave, she
wielded the lash unmercifully.

The pity was, she was too much his
opposite. She could not be content with the
little he might be; she would have him the
much that he ought to be. So, in seeking to
make him nobler than he could be, she
destroyed him. She injured and hurt and
scarred herself, but she lost none of her
worth. She also had the children.

He drank rather heavily, though not more
than many miners, and always beer, so that
whilst his health was affected, it was never
injured. The week-end was his chief
carouse. He sat in the Miners' Arms until
turning-out time every Friday, every
Saturday, and every Sunday evening. On
Monday and Tuesday he had to get up and
reluctantly leave towards ten o'clock.
Sometimes he stayed at home on
Wednesday and Thursday evenings, or was
only out for an hour. He practically never had
to miss work owing to his drinking.

But although he was very steady at work, his
wages fell off. He was blab-mouthed, a

the fence, and count the wagons the engine
is taking along the line up the valley. And the
children, as they come from school at
dinner-time, looking down the fields and
seeing the wheels on the headstocks
standing, say:

"Minton's knocked off. My dad'll be at
home."

And there is a sort of shadow over all,
women and children and men, because
money will be short at the end of the week.

Morel was supposed to give his wife thirty
shillings a week, to provide everything—rent,
food, clothes, clubs, insurance, doctors.
Occasionally, if he were flush, he gave her
thirty-five. But these occasions by no
means balanced those when he gave her
twenty-five. In winter, with a decent stall, the
miner might earn fifty or fifty-five shillings a
week. Then he was happy. On Friday night,
Saturday, and Sunday, he spent royally,
getting rid of his sovereign or thereabouts.
And out of so much, he scarcely spared the
children an extra penny or bought them a
pound of apples. It all went in drink. In the
bad times, matters were more worrying, but
he was not so often drunk, so that Mrs.
Morel used to say:

"I'm not sure I wouldn't rather be short, for
when he's flush, there isn't a minute of
peace."

If he earned forty shillings he kept ten; from
thirty-five he kept five; from thirty-two he
kept four; from twenty-eight he kept three;
from twenty-four he kept two; from twenty
he kept one-and-six; from eighteen he kept
a shilling; from sixteen he kept sixpence. He
never saved a penny, and he gave his wife
no opportunity of saving; instead, she had
occasionally to pay his debts; not public-
house debts, for those never were passed

"Oh, mun I? An' what if I shonna?"

This good-humoured threat amused Mrs.
Morel.

"Then you can go and wash yourself in the
soft-water tub."

"Ha! I can' an' a', tha mucky little 'ussy."

With which he stood watching her a
moment, then went away to wait for her.

When he chose he could still make himself
again a real gallant. Usually he preferred to
go out with a scarf round his neck. Now,
however, he made a toilet. There seemed
so much gusto in the way he puffed and
swilled as he washed himself, so much
alacrity with which he hurried to the mirror in
the kitchen, and, bending because it was
too low for him, scrupulously parted his wet
black hair, that it irritated Mrs. Morel. He put
on a turn-down collar, a black bow, and
wore his Sunday tail-coat. As such, he
looked spruce, and what his clothes would
not do, his instinct for making the most of
his good looks would.

At half-past nine Jerry Purdy came to call
for his pal. Jerry was Morel's bosom friend,
and Mrs. Morel disliked him. He was a tall,
thin man, with a rather foxy face, the kind of
face that seems to lack eyelashes. He
walked with a stiff, brittle dignity, as if his
head were on a wooden spring. His nature
was cold and shrewd. Generous where he
intended to be generous, he seemed to be
very fond of Morel, and more or less to take
charge of him.

Mrs. Morel hated him. She had known his
wife, who had died of consumption, and
who had, at the end, conceived such a
violent dislike of her husband, that if he
came into her room it caused her

"Yes. We mean walkin' to Nottingham," he
replied.

"H'm!"

The two men greeted each other, both glad:
Jerry, however, full of assurance, Morel
rather subdued, afraid to seem too jubilant
in presence of his wife. But he laced his
boots quickly, with spirit. They were going
for a ten-mile walk across the fields to
Nottingham. Climbing the hillside from the
Bottoms, they mounted gaily into the
morning. At the Moon and Stars they had
their first drink, then on to the Old Spot. Then
a long five miles of drought to carry them
into Bulwell to a glorious pint of bitter. But
they stayed in a field with some haymakers
whose gallon bottle was full, so that, when
they came in sight of the city, Morel was
sleepy. The town spread upwards before
them, smoking vaguely in the midday glare,
fridging the crest away to the south with
spires and factory bulks and chimneys. In
the last field Morel lay down under an oak
tree and slept soundly for over an hour.
When he rose to go forward he felt queer.

The two had dinner in the Meadows, with
Jerry's sister, then repaired to the Punch
Bowl, where they mixed in the excitement of
pigeon-racing. Morel never in his life played
cards, considering them as having some
occult, malevolent power—"the devil's
pictures," he called them! But he was a
master of skittles and of dominoes. He took
a challenge from a Newark man, on skittles.
All the men in the old, long bar took sides,
betting either one way or the other. Morel
took off his coat. Jerry held the hat
containing the money. The men at the tables
watched. Some stood with their mugs in
their hands. Morel felt his big wooden ball
carefully, then launched it. He played havoc
among the nine-pins, and won half a crown,
which restored him to solvency.

dismally home, to sleep in preparation for
the morrow. Mrs. Morel, listening to their
mournful singing, went indoors. Nine
o'clock passed, and ten, and still "the pair"
had not returned. On a doorstep
somewhere a man was singing loudly, in a
drawl: "Lead, kindly Light." Mrs. Morel was
always indignant with the drunken men that
they must sing that hymn when they got
maudlin.

"As if 'Genevieve' weren't good enough,"
she said.

The kitchen was full of the scent of boiled
herbs and hops. On the hob a large black
saucepan steamed slowly. Mrs. Morel took
a panchion, a great bowl of thick red earth,
streamed a heap of white sugar into the
bottom, and then, straining herself to the
weight, was pouring in the liquor.

Just then Morel came in. He had been very
jolly in the Nelson, but coming home had
grown irritable. He had not quite got over the
feeling of irritability and pain, after having
slept on the ground when he was so hot;
and a bad conscience afflicted him as he
neared the house. He did not know he was
angry. But when the garden gate resisted
his attempts to open it, he kicked it and
broke the latch. He entered just as Mrs.
Morel was pouring the infusion of herbs out
of the saucepan. Swaying slightly, he
lurched against the table. The boiling liquor
pitched. Mrs. Morel started back.

"Good gracious," she cried, "coming home
in his drunkenness!"

"Comin' home in his what?" he snarled, his
hat over his eye.

Suddenly her blood rose in a jet.

"Say you're NOT drunk!" she flashed.

whoam, not thee. It's my house, not thine.
Then ger out on't—ger out on't!"

"And I would," she cried, suddenly shaken
into tears of impotence. "Ah, wouldn't I,
wouldn't I have gone long ago, but for those
children. Ay, haven't I repented not going
years ago, when I'd only the one"—suddenly
drying into rage. "Do you think it's for YOU I
stop—do you think I'd stop one minute for
YOU?"

"Go, then," he shouted, beside himself.
"Go!"

"No!" She faced round. "No," she cried
loudly, "you shan't have it ALL your own
way; you shan't do ALL you like. I've got
those children to see to. My word," she
laughed, "I should look well to leave them to
you."

"Go," he cried thickly, lifting his fist. He was
afraid of her. "Go!"

"I should be only too glad. I should laugh,
laugh, my lord, if I could get away from you,"
she replied.

He came up to her, his red face, with its
bloodshot eyes, thrust forward, and gripped
her arms. She cried in fear of him, struggled
to be free. Coming slightly to himself,
panting, he pushed her roughly to the outer
door, and thrust her forth, slotting the bolt
behind her with a bang. Then he went back
into the kitchen, dropped into his armchair,
his head, bursting full of blood, sinking
between his knees. Thus he dipped
gradually into a stupor, from exhaustion and
intoxication.

The moon was high and magnificent in the
August night. Mrs. Morel, seared with
passion, shivered to find herself out there in
a great white light, that fell cold on her, and

be stretching in the moonlight. She put her
hand into one white bin: the gold scarcely
showed on her fingers by moonlight. She
bent down to look at the binful of yellow
pollen; but it only appeared dusky. Then she
drank a deep draught of the scent. It almost
made her dizzy.

Mrs. Morel leaned on the garden gate,
looking out, and she lost herself awhile. She
did not know what she thought. Except for a
slight feeling of sickness, and her
consciousness in the child, herself melted
out like scent into the shiny, pale air. After a
time the child, too, melted with her in the
mixing-pot of moonlight, and she rested
with the hills and lilies and houses, all swum
together in a kind of swoon.

When she came to herself she was tired for
sleep. Languidly she looked about her; the
clumps of white phlox seemed like bushes
spread with linen; a moth ricochetted over
them, and right across the garden.
Following it with her eye roused her. A few
whiffs of the raw, strong scent of phlox
invigorated her. She passed along the path,
hesitating at the white rose-bush. It smelled
sweet and simple. She touched the white
ruffles of the roses. Their fresh scent and
cool, soft leaves reminded her of the
morning-time and sunshine. She was very
fond of them. But she was tired, and wanted
to sleep. In the mysterious out-of-doors she
felt forlorn.

There was no noise anywhere. Evidently the
children had not been wakened, or had
gone to sleep again. A train, three miles
away, roared across the valley. The night
was very large, and very strange, stretching
its hoary distances infinitely. And out of the
silver-grey fog of darkness came sounds
vague and hoarse: a corncrake not far off,
sound of a train like a sigh, and distant
shouts of men.

hurt him into consciousness. She rapped
imperatively at the window. He started
awake. Instantly she saw his fists set and
his eyes glare. He had not a grain of
physical fear. If it had been twenty burglars,
he would have gone blindly for them. He
glared round, bewildered, but prepared to
fight.

"Open the door, Walter," she said coldly.

His hands relaxed. It dawned on him what
he had done. His head dropped, sullen and
dogged. She saw him hurry to the door,
heard the bolt chock. He tried the latch. It
opened—and there stood the silver-grey
night, fearful to him, after the tawny light of
the lamp. He hurried back.

When Mrs. Morel entered, she saw him
almost running through the door to the stairs.
He had ripped his collar off his neck in his
haste to be gone ere she came in, and there
it lay with bursten button-holes. It made her
angry.

She warmed and soothed herself. In her
weariness forgetting everything, she moved
about at the little tasks that remained to be
done, set his breakfast, rinsed his pit-
bottle, put his pit-clothes on the hearth to
warm, set his pit-boots beside them, put
him out a clean scarf and snap-bag and two
apples, raked the fire, and went to bed. He
was already dead asleep. His narrow black
eyebrows were drawn up in a sort of
peevish misery into his forehead while his
cheeks' down-strokes, and his sulky
mouth, seemed to be saying: "I don't care
who you are nor what you are, I SHALL have
my own way."

Mrs. Morel knew him too well to look at him.
As she unfastened her brooch at the mirror,
she smiled faintly to see her face all
smeared with the yellow dust of lilies. She

the bang, bang of the poker against the
raker, as Morel smashed the remainder of
the coal to make the kettle, which was filled
and left on the hob, finally boil. His cup and
knife and fork, all he wanted except just the
food, was laid ready on the table on a
newspaper. Then he got his breakfast,
made the tea, packed the bottom of the
doors with rugs to shut out the draught, piled
a big fire, and sat down to an hour of joy. He
toasted his bacon on a fork and caught the
drops of fat on his bread; then he put the
rasher on his thick slice of bread, and cut off
chunks with a clasp-knife, poured his tea
into his saucer, and was happy. With his
family about, meals were never so
pleasant. He loathed a fork: it is a modern
introduction which has still scarcely reached
common people. What Morel preferred was
a clasp-knife. Then, in solitude, he ate and
drank, often sitting, in cold weather, on a
little stool with his back to the warm
chimney-piece, his food on the fender, his
cup on the hearth. And then he read the last
night's newspaper—what of it he
could—spelling it over laboriously. He
preferred to keep the blinds down and the
candle lit even when it was daylight; it was
the habit of the mine.

At a quarter to six he rose, cut two thick
slices of bread and butter, and put them in
the white calico snap-bag. He filled his tin
bottle with tea. Cold tea without milk or
sugar was the drink he preferred for the pit.
Then he pulled off his shirt, and put on his
pit-singlet, a vest of thick flannel cut low
round the neck, and with short sleeves like a
chemise.

Then he went upstairs to his wife with a cup
of tea because she was ill, and because it
occurred to him.

"I've brought thee a cup o' tea, lass," he
said.

Which made her laugh, in spite of her
indignation.

"And the dinner cooks itself?" she
answered.

"Eh, I know nowt about th' dinner."

"You'd know if there weren't any."

"Ay, 'appen so," he answered, departing.

When she got downstairs, she would find
the house tidy, but dirty. She could not rest
until she had thoroughly cleaned; so she
went down to the ash-pit with her dustpan.
Mrs. Kirk, spying her, would contrive to have
to go to her own coal-place at that minute.
Then, across the wooden fence, she would
call:

"So you keep wagging on, then?"

"Ay," answered Mrs. Morel deprecatingly.
"There's nothing else for it."

"Have you seen Hose?" called a very small
woman from across the road. It was Mrs.
Anthony, a black-haired, strange little body,
who always wore a brown velvet dress, tight
fitting.

"I haven't," said Mrs. Morel.

"Eh, I wish he'd come. I've got a copperful
of clothes, an' I'm sure I heered his bell."

"Hark! He's at the end."

The two women looked down the alley. At
the end of the Bottoms a man stood in a sort
of old-fashioned trap, bending over
bundles of cream-coloured stuff; while a
cluster of women held up their arms to him,
some with bundles. Mrs. Anthony herself
had a heap of creamy, undyed stockings

"If you wouldn't mind, Mrs. Kirk."

Mrs. Kirk climbed on to her copper, got over
the wall on to Mrs. Morel's copper, and ran
in to her neighbour.

"Eh, dear, how are you feeling?" she cried
in concern.

"You might fetch Mrs. Bower," said Mrs.
Morel.

Mrs. Kirk went into the yard, lifted up her
strong, shrill voice, and called:

"Ag-gie—Ag-gie!"

The sound was heard from one end of the
Bottoms to the other. At last Aggie came
running up, and was sent for Mrs. Bower,
whilst Mrs. Kirk left her pudding and stayed
with her neighbour.

Mrs. Morel went to bed. Mrs. Kirk had Annie
and William for dinner. Mrs. Bower, fat and
waddling, bossed the house.

"Hash some cold meat up for the master's
dinner, and make him an apple-charlotte
pudding," said Mrs. Morel.

"He may go without pudding this day," said
Mrs. Bower.

Morel was not as a rule one of the first to
appear at the bottom of the pit, ready to
come up. Some men were there before four
o'clock, when the whistle blew loose-all;
but Morel, whose stall, a poor one, was at
this time about a mile and a half away from
the bottom, worked usually till the first mate
stopped, then he finished also. This day,
however, the miner was sick of the work. At
two o'clock he looked at his watch, by the
light of the green candle—he was in a safe
working—and again at half-past two. He was

was a hollow sound of many voices. It was a
long, heavy tramp underground.

He sat at the bottom of the pit, where the
great drops of water fell plash. Many colliers
were waiting their turns to go up, talking
noisily. Morel gave his answers short and
disagreeable.

"It's rainin', Sorry," said old Giles, who had
had the news from the top.

Morel found one comfort. He had his old
umbrella, which he loved, in the lamp cabin.
At last he took his stand on the chair, and
was at the top in a moment. Then he handed
in his lamp and got his umbrella, which he
had bought at an auction for one-and-six.
He stood on the edge of the pit-bank for a
moment, looking out over the fields; grey
rain was falling. The trucks stood full of wet,
bright coal. Water ran down the sides of the
waggons, over the white "C.W. and Co.".
Colliers, walking indifferent to the rain,
were streaming down the line and up the
field, a grey, dismal host. Morel put up his
umbrella, and took pleasure from the
peppering of the drops thereon.

All along the road to Bestwood the miners
tramped, wet and grey and dirty, but their
red mouths talking with animation. Morel
also walked with a gang, but he said
nothing. He frowned peevishly as he went.
Many men passed into the Prince of Wales
or into Ellen's. Morel, feeling sufficiently
disagreeable to resist temptation, trudged
along under the dripping trees that overhung
the park wall, and down the mud of
Greenhill Lane.

Mrs. Morel lay in bed, listening to the rain,
and the feet of the colliers from Minton, their
voices, and the bang, bang of the gates as
they went through the stile up the field.

drank, gasped, and lay back in his chair.
The woman would not speak to him again.
She set his dinner before him, and went
upstairs.

"Was that the master?" asked Mrs. Morel.

"I've gave him his dinner," replied Mrs.
Bower.

After he had sat with his arms on the
table—he resented the fact that Mrs. Bower
put no cloth on for him, and gave him a little
plate, instead of a full-sized dinner-
plate—he began to eat. The fact that his wife
was ill, that he had another boy, was nothing
to him at that moment. He was too tired; he
wanted his dinner; he wanted to sit with his
arms lying on the board; he did not like
having Mrs. Bower about. The fire was too
small to please him.

After he had finished his meal, he sat for
twenty minutes; then he stoked up a big fire.
Then, in his stockinged feet, he went
reluctantly upstairs. It was a struggle to face
his wife at this moment, and he was tired.
His face was black, and smeared with
sweat. His singlet had dried again, soaking
the dirt in. He had a dirty woollen scarf round
his throat. So he stood at the foot of the bed.

"Well, how are ter, then?" he asked.

"I s'll be all right," she answered.

"H'm!"

He stood at a loss what to say next. He was
tired, and this bother was rather a nuisance
to him, and he didn't quite know where he
was.

"A lad, tha says," he stammered.

She turned down the sheet and showed the

"When He changed the water into wine at
Cana," he said, "that is a symbol that the
ordinary life, even the blood, of the married
husband and wife, which had before been
uninspired, like water, became filled with
the Spirit, and was as wine, because, when
love enters, the whole spiritual constitution
of a man changes, is filled with the Holy
Ghost, and almost his form is altered."

Mrs. Morel thought to herself:

"Yes, poor fellow, his young wife is dead;
that is why he makes his love into the Holy
Ghost."

They were halfway down their first cup of
tea when they heard the sluther of pit-boots.

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. Morel, in
spite of herself.

The minister looked rather scared. Morel
entered. He was feeling rather savage. He
nodded a "How d'yer do" to the clergyman,
who rose to shake hands with him.

"Nay," said Morel, showing his hand, "look
thee at it! Tha niver wants ter shake hands
wi' a hand like that, does ter? There's too
much pick-haft and shovel-dirt on it."

The minister flushed with confusion, and sat
down again. Mrs. Morel rose, carried out
the steaming saucepan. Morel took off his
coat, dragged his armchair to table, and sat
down heavily.

"Are you tired?" asked the clergyman.

"Tired? I ham that," replied Morel. "YOU
don't know what it is to be tired, as I'M
tired."

"No," replied the clergyman.

"Pity!" exclaimed his wife, sarcastically.

The room was full of the smell of meat and
vegetables and pit-clothes.

He leaned over to the minister, his great
moustache thrust forward, his mouth very
red in his black face.

"Mr. Heaton," he said, "a man as has been
down the black hole all day, dingin' away at
a coal-face, yi, a sight harder than that
wall—-"

"Needn't make a moan of it," put in Mrs.
Morel.

She hated her husband because, whenever
he had an audience, he whined and played
for sympathy. William, sitting nursing the
baby, hated him, with a boy's hatred for
false sentiment, and for the stupid treatment
of his mother. Annie had never liked him;
she merely avoided him.

When the minister had gone, Mrs. Morel
looked at her cloth.

"A fine mess!" she said.

"Dos't think I'm goin' to sit wi' my arms
danglin', cos tha's got a parson for tea wi'
thee?" he bawled.

They were both angry, but she said nothing.
The baby began to cry, and Mrs. Morel,
picking up a saucepan from the hearth,
accidentally knocked Annie on the head,
whereupon the girl began to whine, and
Morel to shout at her. In the midst of this
pandemonium, William looked up at the big
glazed text over the mantelpiece and read
distinctly:

"God Bless Our Home!"

of sheaves rocked small across the melting
yellow light.

The sun was going down. Every open
evening, the hills of Derbyshire were blazed
over with red sunset. Mrs. Morel watched
the sun sink from the glistening sky, leaving
a soft flower-blue overhead, while the
western space went red, as if all the fire had
swum down there, leaving the bell cast
flawless blue. The mountain-ash berries
across the field stood fierily out from the
dark leaves, for a moment. A few shocks of
corn in a corner of the fallow stood up as if
alive; she imagined them bowing; perhaps
her son would be a Joseph. In the east, a
mirrored sunset floated pink opposite the
west's scarlet. The big haystacks on the
hillside, that butted into the glare, went cold.

With Mrs. Morel it was one of those still
moments when the small frets vanish, and
the beauty of things stands out, and she had
the peace and the strength to see herself.
Now and again, a swallow cut close to her.
Now and again, Annie came up with a
handful of alder-currants. The baby was
restless on his mother's knee, clambering
with his hands at the light.

Mrs. Morel looked down at him. She had
dreaded this baby like a catastrophe,
because of her feeling for her husband. And
now she felt strangely towards the infant.
Her heart was heavy because of the child,
almost as if it were unhealthy, or
malformed. Yet it seemed quite well. But
she noticed the peculiar knitting of the
baby's brows, and the peculiar heaviness
of its eyes, as if it were trying to understand
something that was pain. She felt, when she
looked at her child's dark, brooding pupils,
as if a burden were on her heart.

"He looks as if he was thinking about
something—quite sorrowful," said Mrs. Kirk.

him lift his little fist. Then she put him to her
bosom again, ashamed almost of her
impulse to give him back again whence he
came.

"If he lives," she thought to herself, "what will
become of him—what will he be?"

Her heart was anxious.

"I will call him Paul," she said suddenly; she
knew not why.

After a while she went home. A fine shadow
was flung over the deep green meadow,
darkening all.

As she expected, she found the house
empty. But Morel was home by ten o'clock,
and that day, at least, ended peacefully.

Walter Morel was, at this time, exceedingly
irritable. His work seemed to exhaust him.
When he came home he did not speak civilly
to anybody. If the fire were rather low he
bullied about that; he grumbled about his
dinner; if the children made a chatter he
shouted at them in a way that made their
mother's blood boil, and made them hate
him.

On the Friday, he was not home by eleven
o'clock. The baby was unwell, and was
restless, crying if he were put down. Mrs.
Morel, tired to death, and still weak, was
scarcely under control.

"I wish the nuisance would come," she said
wearily to herself.

The child at last sank down to sleep in her
arms. She was too tired to carry him to the
cradle.

"But I'll say nothing, whatever time he
comes," she said. "It only works me up; I

"What are you doing, clumsy, drunken fool?"
the mother cried.

"Then tha should get the flamin' thing thysen.
Tha should get up, like other women have
to, an' wait on a man."

"Wait on you—wait on you?" she cried. "Yes, I
see myself."

"Yis, an' I'll learn thee tha's got to. Wait on
ME, yes tha sh'lt wait on me—-"

"Never, milord. I'd wait on a dog at the door
first."

"What—what?"

He was trying to fit in the drawer. At her last
speech be turned round. His face was
crimson, his eyes bloodshot. He stared at
her one silent second in threat.

"P-h!" she went quickly, in contempt.

He jerked at the drawer in his excitement. It
fell, cut sharply on his shin, and on the reflex
he flung it at her.

One of the corners caught her brow as the
shallow drawer crashed into the fireplace.
She swayed, almost fell stunned from her
chair. To her very soul she was sick; she
clasped the child tightly to her bosom. A few
moments elapsed; then, with an effort, she
brought herself to. The baby was crying
plaintively. Her left brow was bleeding
rather profusely. As she glanced down at
the child, her brain reeling, some drops of
blood soaked into its white shawl; but the
baby was at least not hurt. She balanced her
head to keep equilibrium, so that the blood
ran into her eye.

Walter Morel remained as he had stood,
leaning on the table with one hand, looking

got up and came craning his neck towards
her.

"What has it done to thee, lass?" he asked,
in a very wretched, humble tone.

"You can see what it's done," she
answered.

He stood, bending forward, supported on
his hands, which grasped his legs just
above the knee. He peered to look at the
wound. She drew away from the thrust of
his face with its great moustache, averting
her own face as much as possible. As he
looked at her, who was cold and impassive
as stone, with mouth shut tight, he sickened
with feebleness and hopelessness of spirit.
He was turning drearily away, when he saw
a drop of blood fall from the averted wound
into the baby's fragile, glistening hair.
Fascinated, he watched the heavy dark
drop hang in the glistening cloud, and pull
down the gossamer. Another drop fell. It
would soak through to the baby's scalp. He
watched, fascinated, feeling it soak in;
then, finally, his manhood broke.

"What of this child?" was all his wife said to
him. But her low, intense tones brought his
head lower. She softened: "Get me some
wadding out of the middle drawer," she
said.

He stumbled away very obediently,
presently returning with a pad, which she
singed before the fire, then put on her
forehead, as she sat with the baby on her
lap.

"Now that clean pit-scarf."

Again he rummaged and fumbled in the
drawer, returning presently with a red,
narrow scarf. She took it, and with trembling
fingers proceeded to bind it round her head.

went upstairs, towards four o'clock, to put
on her Sunday dress, he was fast asleep.
She would have felt sorry for him, if he had
once said, "Wife, I'm sorry." But no; he
insisted to himself it was her fault. And so
he broke himself. So she merely left him
alone. There was this deadlock of passion
between them, and she was stronger.

The family began tea. Sunday was the only
day when all sat down to meals together.

"Isn't my father going to get up?" asked
William.

"Let him lie," the mother replied.

There was a feeling of misery over all the
house. The children breathed the air that
was poisoned, and they felt dreary. They
were rather disconsolate, did not know
what to do, what to play at.

Immediately Morel woke he got straight out
of bed. That was characteristic of him all his
life. He was all for activity. The prostrated
inactivity of two mornings was stifling him.

It was near six o'clock when he got down.
This time he entered without hesitation, his
wincing sensitiveness having hardened
again. He did not care any longer what the
family thought or felt.

The tea-things were on the table. William
was reading aloud from "The Child's Own",
Annie listening and asking eternally "why?"
Both children hushed into silence as they
heard the approaching thud of their father's
stockinged feet, and shrank as he entered.
Yet he was usually indulgent to them.

Morel made the meal alone, brutally. He ate
and drank more noisily than he had need.
No one spoke to him. The family life
withdrew, shrank away, and became

On the Wednesday following, Morel was
penniless. He dreaded his wife. Having hurt
her, he hated her. He did not know what to
do with himself that evening, having not
even twopence with which to go to the
Palmerston, and being already rather
deeply in debt. So, while his wife was down
the garden with the child, he hunted in the
top drawer of the dresser where she kept
her purse, found it, and looked inside. It
contained a half-crown, two halfpennies,
and a sixpence. So he took the sixpence,
put the purse carefully back, and went out.

The next day, when she wanted to pay the
greengrocer, she looked in the purse for her
sixpence, and her heart sank to her shoes.
Then she sat down and thought: "WAS there
a sixpence? I hadn't spent it, had I? And I
hadn't left it anywhere else?"

She was much put about. She hunted round
everywhere for it. And, as she sought, the
conviction came into her heart that her
husband had taken it. What she had in her
purse was all the money she possessed.
But that he should sneak it from her thus
was unbearable. He had done so twice
before. The first time she had not accused
him, and at the week-end he had put the
shilling again into her purse. So that was
how she had known he had taken it. The
second time he had not paid back.

This time she felt it was too much. When he
had had his dinner—he came home early that
day—she said to him coldly:

"Did you take sixpence out of my purse last
night?"

"Me!" he said, looking up in an offended
way. "No, I didna! I niver clapped eyes on
your purse."

But she could detect the lie.

And she and William retired to the sofa and
wept. Mrs. Morel sat and laughed.

"You pair of gabeys!" she exclaimed. "You'll
see him before the night's out."

But the children were not to be consoled.
Twilight came on. Mrs. Morel grew anxious
from very weariness. One part of her said it
would be a relief to see the last of him;
another part fretted because of keeping the
children; and inside her, as yet, she could
not quite let him go. At the bottom, she knew
very well he could NOT go.

When she went down to the coal-place at
the end of the garden, however, she felt
something behind the door. So she looked.
And there in the dark lay the big blue bundle.
She sat on a piece of coal and laughed.
Every time she saw it, so fat and yet so
ignominious, slunk into its corner in the
dark, with its ends flopping like dejected
ears from the knots, she laughed again.
She was relieved.

Mrs. Morel sat waiting. He had not any
money, she knew, so if he stopped he was
running up a bill. She was very tired of
him—tired to death. He had not even the
courage to carry his bundle beyond the
yard-end.

As she meditated, at about nine o'clock, he
opened the door and came in, slinking, and
yet sulky. She said not a word. He took off
his coat, and slunk to his armchair, where
he began to take off his boots.

"You'd better fetch your bundle before you
take your boots off," she said quietly.

"You may thank your stars I've come back
to-night," he said, looking up from under his
dropped head, sulkily, trying to be
impressive.

"It's better than any of your tea or your cocoa
stews," he vowed. But they were not to be
tempted.

This time, however, neither pills nor vitriol
nor all his herbs would shift the "nasty peens
in his head". He was sickening for an attack
of an inflammation of the brain. He had
never been well since his sleeping on the
ground when he went with Jerry to
Nottingham. Since then he had drunk and
stormed. Now he fell seriously ill, and Mrs.
Morel had him to nurse. He was one of the
worst patients imaginable. But, in spite of
all, and putting aside the fact that he was
breadwinner, she never quite wanted him to
die. Still there was one part of her wanted
him for herself.

The neighbours were very good to her:
occasionally some had the children in to
meals, occasionally some would do the
downstairs work for her, one would mind
the baby for a day. But it was a great drag,
nevertheless. It was not every day the
neighbours helped. Then she had nursing of
baby and husband, cleaning and cooking,
everything to do. She was quite worn out,
but she did what was wanted of her.

And the money was just sufficient. She had
seventeen shillings a week from clubs, and
every Friday Barker and the other butty put
by a portion of the stall's profits for Morel's
wife. And the neighbours made broths, and
gave eggs, and such invalids' trifles. If they
had not helped her so generously in those
times, Mrs. Morel would never have pulled
through, without incurring debts that would
have dragged her down.

The weeks passed. Morel, almost against
hope, grew better. He had a fine
constitution, so that, once on the mend, he
went straight forward to recovery. Soon he
was pottering about downstairs. During his

man's life. His wife was casting him off,
half regretfully, but relentlessly; casting him
off and turning now for love and life to the
children. Henceforward he was more or
less a husk. And he himself acquiesced, as
so many men do, yielding their place to their
children.

During his recuperation, when it was really
over between them, both made an effort to
come back somewhat to the old
relationship of the first months of their
marriage. He sat at home and, when the
children were in bed, and she was
sewing—she did all her sewing by hand,
made all shirts and children's clothing—he
would read to her from the newspaper,
slowly pronouncing and delivering the
words like a man pitching quoits. Often she
hurried him on, giving him a phrase in
anticipation. And then he took her words
humbly.

The silences between them were peculiar.
There would be the swift, slight "cluck" of
her needle, the sharp "pop" of his lips as he
let out the smoke, the warmth, the sizzle on
the bars as he spat in the fire. Then her
thoughts turned to William. Already he was
getting a big boy. Already he was top of the
class, and the master said he was the
smartest lad in the school. She saw him a
man, young, full of vigour, making the world
glow again for her.

And Morel sitting there, quite alone, and
having nothing to think about, would be
feeling vaguely uncomfortable. His soul
would reach out in its blind way to her and
find her gone. He felt a sort of emptiness,
almost like a vacuum in his soul. He was
unsettled and restless. Soon he could not
live in that atmosphere, and he affected his
wife. Both felt an oppression on their
breathing when they were left together for
some time. Then he went to bed and she

stronger and more active, while Paul,
always rather delicate and quiet, got
slimmer, and trotted after his mother like her
shadow. He was usually active and
interested, but sometimes he would have
fits of depression. Then the mother would
find the boy of three or four crying on the
sofa.

"What's the matter?" she asked, and got no
answer.

"What's the matter?" she insisted, getting
cross.

"I don't know," sobbed the child.

So she tried to reason him out of it, or to
amuse him, but without effect. It made her
feel beside herself. Then the father, always
impatient, would jump from his chair and
shout:

"If he doesn't stop, I'll smack him till he
does."

"You'll do nothing of the sort," said the
mother coldly. And then she carried the child
into the yard, plumped him into his little
chair, and said: "Now cry there, Misery!"

And then a butterfly on the rhubarb-leaves
perhaps caught his eye, or at last he cried
himself to sleep. These fits were not often,
but they caused a shadow in Mrs. Morel's
heart, and her treatment of Paul was
different from that of the other children.

Suddenly one morning as she was looking
down the alley of the Bottoms for the barm-
man, she heard a voice calling her. It was
the thin little Mrs. Anthony in brown velvet.

"Here, Mrs. Morel, I want to tell you about
your Willie."

did."

"Why—it was yesterday—an' it was torn
a'ready."

"But you tore it more."

"Well, I'd got a cobbler as 'ad licked
seventeen—an' Alfy Ant'ny 'e says:


'Adam an' Eve an' pinch-me,
Went down to a river to bade.
Adam an' Eve got drownded,
Who do yer think got saved?'

An' so I says: 'Oh, Pinch-YOU,' an' so I
pinched 'im, an' 'e was mad, an' so he
snatched my cobbler an' run off with it. An'
so I run after 'im, an' when I was gettin' hold
of 'im, 'e dodged, an' it ripped 'is collar. But
I got my cobbler—-"

He pulled from his pocket a black old horse-
chestnut hanging on a string. This old
cobbler had "cobbled"—hit and
smashed—seventeen other cobblers on
similar strings. So the boy was proud of his
veteran.

"Well," said Mrs. Morel, "you know you've
got no right to rip his collar."

"Well, our mother!" he answered. "I never
meant tr'a done it—an' it was on'y an old
indirrubber collar as was torn a'ready."

"Next time," said his mother, "YOU be more
careful. I shouldn't like it if you came home
with your collar torn off."

"I don't care, our mother; I never did it a-
purpose."

The boy was rather miserable at being
reprimanded.

"You would, before you're told," replied his
wife bitingly.

"Niver you mind," stormed Morel. "I know my
business."

"That's more than doubtful," said Mrs.
Morel, "supposing some loud-mouthed
creature had been getting you to thrash your
own children."

"I know," repeated Morel.

And he said no more, but sat and nursed his
bad temper. Suddenly William ran in, saying:

"Can I have my tea, mother?"

"Tha can ha'e more than that!" shouted
Morel.

"Hold your noise, man," said Mrs. Morel;
"and don't look so ridiculous."

"He'll look ridiculous before I've done wi'
him!" shouted Morel, rising from his chair
and glaring at his son.

William, who was a tall lad for his years, but
very sensitive, had gone pale, and was
looking in a sort of horror at his father.

"Go out!" Mrs. Morel commanded her son.

William had not the wit to move. Suddenly
Morel clenched his fist, and crouched.

"I'll GI'E him 'go out'!" he shouted like an
insane thing.

"What!" cried Mrs. Morel, panting with rage.
"You shall not touch him for HER telling, you
shall not!"

"Shonna I?" shouted Morel. "Shonna I?"

enjoyed it, partly because of the treats they
derived from it. The Guild was called by
some hostile husbands, who found their
wives getting too independent, the "clat-
fart" shop—that is, the gossip-shop. It is true,
from off the basis of the Guild, the women
could look at their homes, at the conditions
of their own lives, and find fault. So the
colliers found their women had a new
standard of their own, rather disconcerting.
And also, Mrs. Morel always had a lot of
news on Monday nights, so that the children
liked William to be in when their mother
came home, because she told him things.

Then, when the lad was thirteen, she got
him a job in the "Co-op." office. He was a
very clever boy, frank, with rather rough
features and real viking blue eyes.

"What dost want ter ma'e a stool-harsed
Jack on 'im for?" said Morel. "All he'll do is
to wear his britches behind out an' earn
nowt. What's 'e startin' wi'?"

"It doesn't matter what he's starting with,"
said Mrs. Morel.

"It wouldna! Put 'im i' th' pit we me, an' 'ell
earn a easy ten shillin' a wik from th' start.
But six shillin' wearin' his truck-end out on a
stool's better than ten shillin' i' th' pit wi'me,
I know."

"He is NOT going in the pit," said Mrs.
Morel, "and there's an end of it."

"It wor good enough for me, but it's non
good enough for 'im."

"If your mother put you in the pit at twelve,
it's no reason why I should do the same with
my lad."

"Twelve! It wor a sight afore that!"

Occasionally some flame would come in
pursuit of her errant swain. Mrs. Morel
would find a strange girl at the door, and
immediately she sniffed the air.

"Is Mr. Morel in?" the damsel would ask
appealingly.

"My husband is at home," Mrs. Morel
replied.

"I—I mean YOUNG Mr. Morel," repeated the
maiden painfully.

"Which one? There are several."

Whereupon much blushing and stammering
from the fair one.

"I—I met Mr. Morel—at Ripley," she explained.

"Oh—at a dance!"

"Yes."

"I don't approve of the girls my son meets at
dances. And he is NOT at home."

Then he came home angry with his mother
for having turned the girl away so rudely. He
was a careless, yet eager-looking fellow,
who walked with long strides, sometimes
frowning, often with his cap pushed jollily to
the back of his head. Now he came in
frowning. He threw his cap on to the sofa,
and took his strong jaw in his hand, and
glared down at his mother. She was small,
with her hair taken straight back from her
forehead. She had a quiet air of authority,
and yet of rare warmth. Knowing her son
was angry, she trembled inwardly.

"Did a lady call for me yesterday, mother?"
he asked.

"I don't know about a lady. There was a girl

On the evening of the dance, when he had
come home to dress, Mrs. Morel put on her
coat and bonnet.

"Aren't you going to stop and see me,
mother?" he asked.

"No; I don't want to see you," she replied.

She was rather pale, and her face was
closed and hard. She was afraid of her
son's going the same way as his father. He
hesitated a moment, and his heart stood still
with anxiety. Then he caught sight of the
Highland bonnet with its ribbons. He picked
it up gleefully, forgetting her. She went out.

When he was nineteen he suddenly left the
Co-op. office and got a situation in
Nottingham. In his new place he had thirty
shillings a week instead of eighteen. This
was indeed a rise. His mother and his father
were brimmed up with pride. Everybody
praised William. It seemed he was going to
get on rapidly. Mrs. Morel hoped, with his
aid, to help her younger sons. Annie was
now studying to be a teacher. Paul, also
very clever, was getting on well, having
lessons in French and German from his
godfather, the clergyman who was still a
friend to Mrs. Morel. Arthur, a spoilt and very
good-looking boy, was at the Board
school, but there was talk of his trying to get
a scholarship for the High School in
Nottingham.

William remained a year at his new post in
Nottingham. He was studying hard, and
growing serious. Something seemed to be
fretting him. Still he went out to the dances
and the river parties. He did not drink. The
children were all rabid teetotallers. He came
home very late at night, and sat yet longer
studying. His mother implored him to take
more care, to do one thing or another.

her. He took nearly all himself away.

A few days before his departure—he was
just twenty—he burned his love-letters. They
had hung on a file at the top of the kitchen
cupboard. From some of them he had read
extracts to his mother. Some of them she
had taken the trouble to read herself. But
most were too trivial.

Now, on the Saturday morning he said:

"Come on, Postle, let's go through my
letters, and you can have the birds and
flowers."

Mrs. Morel had done her Saturday's work
on the Friday, because he was having a last
day's holiday. She was making him a rice
cake, which he loved, to take with him. He
was scarcely conscious that she was so
miserable.

He took the first letter off the file. It was
mauve-tinted, and had purple and green
thistles. William sniffed the page.

"Nice scent! Smell."

And he thrust the sheet under Paul's nose.

"Um!" said Paul, breathing in. "What d'you
call it? Smell, mother."

His mother ducked her small, fine nose
down to the paper.

"I don't want to smell their rubbish," she
said, sniffing.

"This girl's father," said William, "is as rich
as Croesus. He owns property without end.
She calls me Lafayette, because I know
French. 'You will see, I've forgiven you'—I
like HER forgiving me. 'I told mother about
you this morning, and she will have much

Chapter 4: THE YOUNG LIFE OF PAUL

PAUL would be built like his mother, slightly
and rather small. His fair hair went reddish,
and then dark brown; his eyes were grey.
He was a pale, quiet child, with eyes that
seemed to listen, and with a full, dropping
underlip.

As a rule he seemed old for his years. He
was so conscious of what other people felt,
particularly his mother. When she fretted he
understood, and could have no peace. His
soul seemed always attentive to her.

As he grew older he became stronger.
William was too far removed from him to
accept him as a companion. So the smaller
boy belonged at first almost entirely to
Annie. She was a tomboy and a "flybie-
skybie", as her mother called her. But she
was intensely fond of her second brother.
So Paul was towed round at the heels of
Annie, sharing her game. She raced wildly
at lerky with the other young wild-cats of the
Bottoms. And always Paul flew beside her,
living her share of the game, having as yet
no part of his own. He was quiet and not
noticeable. But his sister adored him. He
always seemed to care for things if she
wanted him to.

She had a big doll of which she was
fearfully proud, though not so fond. So she
laid the doll on the sofa, and covered it with
an antimacassar, to sleep. Then she forgot
it. Meantime Paul must practise jumping off
the sofa arm. So he jumped crash into the
face of the hidden doll. Annie rushed up,
uttered a loud wail, and sat down to weep a
dirge. Paul remained quite still.

"You couldn't tell it was there, mother; you
couldn't tell it was there," he repeated over
and over. So long as Annie wept for the doll
he sat helpless with misery. Her grief wore

William was white to the lips, and his fists
were clenched. He waited until the children
were silent, watching with children's rage
and hate; then he said:

"You coward, you daren't do it when I was
in."

But Morel's blood was up. He swung round
on his son. William was bigger, but Morel
was hard-muscled, and mad with fury.

"Dossn't I?" he shouted. "Dossn't I? Ha'e
much more o' thy chelp, my young jockey,
an' I'll rattle my fist about thee. Ay, an' I sholl
that, dost see?"

Morel crouched at the knees and showed
his fist in an ugly, almost beast-like fashion.
William was white with rage.

"Will yer?" he said, quiet and intense. "It 'ud
be the last time, though."

Morel danced a little nearer, crouching,
drawing back his fist to strike. William put
his fists ready. A light came into his blue
eyes, almost like a laugh. He watched his
father. Another word, and the men would
have begun to fight. Paul hoped they would.
The three children sat pale on the sofa.

"Stop it, both of you," cried Mrs. Morel in a
hard voice. "We've had enough for ONE
night. And YOU," she said, turning on to her
husband, "look at your children!"

Morel glanced at the sofa.

"Look at the children, you nasty little bitch!"
he sneered. "Why, what have I done to the
children, I should like to know? But they're
like yourself; you've put 'em up to your own
tricks and nasty ways—you've learned 'em in
it, you 'ave."

the wide, dark valley, until eight o'clock.
Then they went to bed. Their mother sat
sewing below. Having such a great space in
front of the house gave the children a feeling
of night, of vastness, and of terror. This
terror came in from the shrieking of the tree
and the anguish of the home discord. Often
Paul would wake up, after he had been
asleep a long time, aware of thuds
downstairs. Instantly he was wide awake.
Then he heard the booming shouts of his
father, come home nearly drunk, then the
sharp replies of his mother, then the bang,
bang of his father's fist on the table, and the
nasty snarling shout as the man's voice got
higher. And then the whole was drowned in
a piercing medley of shrieks and cries from
the great, wind-swept ash-tree. The
children lay silent in suspense, waiting for a
lull in the wind to hear what their father was
doing. He might hit their mother again.
There was a feeling of horror, a kind of
bristling in the darkness, and a sense of
blood. They lay with their hearts in the grip of
an intense anguish. The wind came through
the tree fiercer and fiercer. All the chords of
the great harp hummed, whistled, and
shrieked. And then came the horror of the
sudden silence, silence everywhere,
outside and downstairs. What was it? Was it
a silence of blood? What had he done?

The children lay and breathed the darkness.
And then, at last, they heard their father
throw down his boots and tramp upstairs in
his stockinged feet. Still they listened. Then
at last, if the wind allowed, they heard the
water of the tap drumming into the kettle,
which their mother was filling for morning,
and they could go to sleep in peace.

So they were happy in the morning—happy,
very happy playing, dancing at night round
the lonely lamp-post in the midst of the
darkness. But they had one tight place of
anxiety in their hearts, one darkness in their

fire glowed red. Mrs. Morel sat alone. On
the hob the saucepan steamed; the dinner-
plate lay waiting on the table. All the room
was full of the sense of waiting, waiting for
the man who was sitting in his pit-dirt,
dinnerless, some mile away from home,
across the darkness, drinking himself
drunk. Paul stood in the doorway.

"Has my dad come?" he asked.

"You can see he hasn't," said Mrs. Morel,
cross with the futility of the question.

Then the boy dawdled about near his
mother. They shared the same anxiety.
Presently Mrs. Morel went out and strained
the potatoes.

"They're ruined and black," she said; "but
what do I care?"

Not many words were spoken. Paul almost
hated his mother for suffering because his
father did not come home from work.

"What do you bother yourself for?" he said.
"If he wants to stop and get drunk, why don't
you let him?"

"Let him!" flashed Mrs. Morel. "You may well
say 'let him'."

She knew that the man who stops on the
way home from work is on a quick way to
ruining himself and his home. The children
were yet young, and depended on the
breadwinner. William gave her the sense of
relief, providing her at last with someone to
turn to if Morel failed. But the tense
atmosphere of the room on these waiting
evenings was the same.

The minutes ticked away. At six o'clock still
the cloth lay on the table, still the dinner
stood waiting, still the same sense of

"I'll lay my fist about thy y'ead, I'm tellin'
thee, if tha doesna stop that clatter! Dost
hear?"

And the two last words, shouted in a bullying
fashion, usually at Annie, made the family
writhe with hate of the man.

He was shut out from all family affairs. No
one told him anything. The children, alone
with their mother, told her all about the day's
happenings, everything. Nothing had really
taken place in them until it was told to their
mother. But as soon as the father came in,
everything stopped. He was like the scotch
in the smooth, happy machinery of the
home. And he was always aware of this fall
of silence on his entry, the shutting off of
life, the unwelcome. But now it was gone
too far to alter.

He would dearly have liked the children to
talk to him, but they could not. Sometimes
Mrs. Morel would say:

"You ought to tell your father."

Paul won a prize in a competition in a
child's paper. Everybody was highly
jubilant.

"Now you'd better tell your father when be
comes in," said Mrs. Morel. "You know how
be carries on and says he's never told
anything."

"All right," said Paul. But he would almost
rather have forfeited the prize than have to
tell his father.

"I've won a prize in a competition, dad," he
said. Morel turned round to him.

"Have you, my boy? What sort of a
competition?"

while the room was full of a scent of burnt
resin and hot tin, and Morel was silent and
intent for a minute. He always sang when he
mended boots because of the jolly sound of
hammering. And he was rather happy when
he sat putting great patches on his moleskin
pit trousers, which he would often do,
considering them too dirty, and the stuff too
hard, for his wife to mend.

But the best time for the young children was
when he made fuses. Morel fetched a sheaf
of long sound wheat-straws from the attic.
These he cleaned with his hand, till each
one gleamed like a stalk of gold, after which
he cut the straws into lengths of about six
inches, leaving, if he could, a notch at the
bottom of each piece. He always had a
beautifully sharp knife that could cut a straw
clean without hurting it. Then he set in the
middle of the table a heap of gunpowder, a
little pile of black grains upon the white-
scrubbed board. He made and trimmed the
straws while Paul and Annie rifled and
plugged them. Paul loved to see the black
grains trickle down a crack in his palm into
the mouth of the straw, peppering jollily
downwards till the straw was full. Then he
bunged up the mouth with a bit of
soap—which he got on his thumb-nail from a
pat in a saucer—and the straw was finished.

"Look, dad!" he said.

"That's right, my beauty," replied Morel,
who was peculiarly lavish of endearments
to his second son. Paul popped the fuse
into the powder-tin, ready for the morning,
when Morel would take it to the pit, and use
it to fire a shot that would blast the coal
down.

Meantime Arthur, still fond of his father,
would lean on the arm of Morel's chair and
say:

"The corn as the 'osses drops—an' they'll get
in your pocket an' eat your snap, if you'll let
'em—no matter where yo' hing your coat—the
slivin', nibblin' little nuisances, for they are."

These happy evenings could not take place
unless Morel had some job to do. And then
he always went to bed very early, often
before the children. There was nothing
remaining for him to stay up for, when he
had finished tinkering, and had skimmed
the headlines of the newspaper.

And the children felt secure when their
father was in bed. They lay and talked softly
a while. Then they started as the lights went
suddenly sprawling over the ceiling from the
lamps that swung in the hands of the colliers
tramping by outside, going to take the nine
o'clock shift. They listened to the voices of
the men, imagined them dipping down into
the dark valley. Sometimes they went to the
window and watched the three or four
lamps growing tinier and tinier, swaying
down the fields in the darkness. Then it was
a joy to rush back to bed and cuddle closely
in the warmth.

Paul was rather a delicate boy, subject to
bronchitis. The others were all quite strong;
so this was another reason for his mother's
difference in feeling for him. One day he
came home at dinner-time feeling ill. But it
was not a family to make any fuss.

"What's the matter with YOU?" his mother
asked sharply.

"Nothing," he replied.

But he ate no dinner.

"If you eat no dinner, you're not going to
school," she said.

"Why?" he asked.

ever did, no movement she ever made,
could have been found fault with by her
children. The room was warm and full of the
scent of hot linen. Later on the clergyman
came and talked softly with her.

Paul was laid up with an attack of
bronchitis. He did not mind much. What
happened happened, and it was no good
kicking against the pricks. He loved the
evenings, after eight o'clock, when the light
was put out, and he could watch the fire-
flames spring over the darkness of the walls
and ceiling; could watch huge shadows
waving and tossing, till the room seemed
full of men who battled silently.

On retiring to bed, the father would come
into the sickroom. He was always very
gentle if anyone were ill. But he disturbed
the atmosphere for the boy.

"Are ter asleep, my darlin'?" Morel asked
softly.

"No; is my mother comin'?"

"She's just finishin' foldin' the clothes. Do
you want anything?" Morel rarely "thee'd" his
son.

"I don't want nothing. But how long will she
be?"

"Not long, my duckie."

The father waited undecidedly on the
hearthrug for a moment or two. He felt his
son did not want him. Then he went to the
top of the stairs and said to his wife:

"This childt's axin' for thee; how long art
goin' to be?"

"Until I've finished, good gracious! Tell him
to go to sleep."

troop home—small, black figures trailing
slowly in gangs across the white field. Then
the night came up in dark blue vapour from
the snow.

In convalescence everything was wonderful.
The snowflakes, suddenly arriving on the
window-pane, clung there a moment like
swallows, then were gone, and a drop of
water was crawling down the glass. The
snowflakes whirled round the corner of the
house, like pigeons dashing by. Away
across the valley the little black train crawled
doubtfully over the great whiteness.

While they were so poor, the children were
delighted if they could do anything to help
economically. Annie and Paul and Arthur
went out early in the morning, in summer,
looking for mushrooms, hunting through the
wet grass, from which the larks were rising,
for the white-skinned, wonderful naked
bodies crouched secretly in the green. And
if they got half a pound they felt exceedingly
happy: there was the joy of finding
something, the joy of accepting something
straight from the hand of Nature, and the joy
of contributing to the family exchequer.

But the most important harvest, after
gleaning for frumenty, was the blackberries.
Mrs. Morel must buy fruit for puddings on the
Saturdays; also she liked blackberries. So
Paul and Arthur scoured the coppices and
woods and old quarries, so long as a
blackberry was to be found, every week-
end going on their search. In that region of
mining villages blackberries became a
comparative rarity. But Paul hunted far and
wide. He loved being out in the country,
among the bushes. But he also could not
bear to go home to his mother empty. That,
he felt, would disappoint her, and he would
have died rather.

"Good gracious!" she would exclaim as the

earnings of each stall were put down to the
chief butty, as contractor, and he divided
the wages again, either in the public-house
or in his own home. So that the children
could fetch the money, school closed early
on Friday afternoons. Each of the Morel
children—William, then Annie, then Paul—had
fetched the money on Friday afternoons,
until they went themselves to work. Paul
used to set off at half-past three, with a little
calico bag in his pocket. Down all the paths,
women, girls, children, and men were seen
trooping to the offices.

These offices were quite handsome: a
new, red-brick building, almost like a
mansion, standing in its own grounds at the
end of Greenhill Lane. The waiting-room
was the hall, a long, bare room paved with
blue brick, and having a seat all round,
against the wall. Here sat the colliers in their
pit-dirt. They had come up early. The
women and children usually loitered about
on the red gravel paths. Paul always
examined the grass border, and the big
grass bank, because in it grew tiny pansies
and tiny forget-me-nots. There was a
sound of many voices. The women had on
their Sunday hats. The girls chattered loudly.
Little dogs ran here and there. The green
shrubs were silent all around.

Then from inside came the cry "Spinney
Park—Spinney Park." All the folk for Spinney
Park trooped inside. When it was time for
Bretty to be paid, Paul went in among the
crowd. The pay-room was quite small. A
counter went across, dividing it into half.
Behind the counter stood two men—Mr.
Braithwaite and his clerk, Mr. Winterbottom.
Mr. Braithwaite was large, somewhat of the
stern patriarch in appearance, having a
rather thin white beard. He was usually
muffled in an enormous silk neckerchief,
and right up to the hot summer a huge fire
burned in the open grate. No window was

"An' niver mind if he puts his foot through
yer," said a mocking voice from behind.

All the men laughed. The large and
important cashier looked down at his next
sheet.

"Fred Pilkington!" he called, quite
indifferent.

Mr. Braithwaite was an important
shareholder in the firm.

Paul knew his turn was next but one, and his
heart began to beat. He was pushed
against the chimney-piece. His calves were
burning. But he did not hope to get through
the wall of men.

"Walter Morel!" came the ringing voice.

"Here!" piped Paul, small and inadequate.

"Morel—Walter Morel!" the cashier repeated,
his finger and thumb on the invoice, ready to
pass on.

Paul was suffering convulsions of self-
consciousness, and could not or would not
shout. The backs of the men obliterated
him. Then Mr. Winterbottom came to the
rescue.

"He's here. Where is he? Morel's lad?"

The fat, red, bald little man peered round
with keen eyes. He pointed at the fireplace.
The colliers looked round, moved aside,
and disclosed the boy.

"Here he is!" said Mr. Winterbottom.

Paul went to the counter.

"Seventeen pounds eleven and fivepence.
Why don't you shout up when you're called?"

white fowls pecking under the apple trees
of an orchard. The colliers were walking
home in a stream. The boy went near the
wall, self-consciously. He knew many of the
men, but could not recognise them in their
dirt. And this was a new torture to him.

When he got down to the New Inn, at Bretty,
his father was not yet come. Mrs. Wharmby,
the landlady, knew him. His grandmother,
Morel's mother, had been Mrs. Wharmby's
friend.

"Your father's not come yet," said the
landlady, in the peculiar half-scornful, half-
patronising voice of a woman who talks
chiefly to grown men. "Sit you down."

Paul sat down on the edge of the bench in
the bar. Some colliers were
"reckoning"—sharing out their money—in a
corner; others came in. They all glanced at
the boy without speaking. At last Morel
came; brisk, and with something of an air,
even in his blackness.

"Hello!" he said rather tenderly to his son.
"Have you bested me? Shall you have a
drink of something?"

Paul and all the children were bred up fierce
anti-alcoholists, and he would have
suffered more in drinking a lemonade
before all the men than in having a tooth
drawn.

The landlady looked at him de haut en bas,
rather pitying, and at the same time,
resenting his clear, fierce morality. Paul
went home, glowering. He entered the
house silently. Friday was baking day, and
there was usually a hot bun. His mother put it
before him.

Suddenly he turned on her in a fury, his eyes
flashing:

replied.

"An' then Alfred Winterbottom says, 'What
do they teach you at the Board-school?'"

"They never taught HIM much," said Mrs.
Morel, "that is a fact—neither manners nor
wit—and his cunning he was born with."

So, in her own way, she soothed him. His
ridiculous hypersensitiveness made her
heart ache. And sometimes the fury in his
eyes roused her, made her sleeping soul lift
up its head a moment, surprised.

"What was the cheque?" she asked.

"Seventeen pounds eleven and fivepence,
and sixteen and six stoppages," replied the
boy. "It's a good week; and only five
shillings stoppages for my father."

So she was able to calculate how much her
husband had earned, and could call him to
account if he gave her short money. Morel
always kept to himself the secret of the
week's amount.

Friday was the baking night and market
night. It was the rule that Paul should stay at
home and bake. He loved to stop in and
draw or read; he was very fond of drawing.
Annie always "gallivanted" on Friday nights;
Arthur was enjoying himself as usual. So
the boy remained alone.

Mrs. Morel loved her marketing. In the tiny
market-place on the top of the hill, where
four roads, from Nottingham and Derby,
Ilkeston and Mansfield, meet, many stalls
were erected. Brakes ran in from
surrounding villages. The market-place
was full of women, the streets packed with
men. It was amazing to see so many men
everywhere in the streets. Mrs. Morel usually
quarrelled with her lace woman,

uncomfortable feeling, as if there were
something between them. Suddenly he
shouted:

"Do you want it for fivepence?"

She started. Her heart hardened; but then
she stooped and took up her dish.

"I'll have it," she said.

"Yer'll do me the favour, like?" he said.
"Yer'd better spit in it, like yer do when y'ave
something give yer."

Mrs. Morel paid him the fivepence in a cold
manner.

"I don't see you give it me," she said. "You
wouldn't let me have it for fivepence if you
didn't want to."

"In this flamin', scrattlin' place you may
count yerself lucky if you can give your
things away," he growled.

"Yes; there are bad times, and good," said
Mrs. Morel.

But she had forgiven the pot man. They
were friends. She dare now finger his pots.
So she was happy.

Paul was waiting for her. He loved her
home-coming. She was always her best
so—triumphant, tired, laden with parcels,
feeling rich in spirit. He heard her quick,
light step in the entry and looked up from his
drawing.

"Oh!" she sighed, smiling at him from the
doorway.

"My word, you ARE loaded!" he exclaimed,
putting down his brush.

"One and three," said Paul.

"Fivepence!"

"It's not enough, mother."

"No. Do you know, I fairly sneaked off with
it. But I'd been extravagant, I couldn't afford
any more. And he needn't have let me have
it if he hadn't wanted to."

"No, he needn't, need he," said Paul, and
the two comforted each other from the fear
of having robbed the pot man.

"We c'n have stewed fruit in it," said Paul.

"Or custard, or a jelly," said his mother.

"Or radishes and lettuce," said he.

"Don't forget that bread," she said, her
voice bright with glee.

Paul looked in the oven; tapped the loaf on
the base.

"It's done," he said, giving it to her.

She tapped it also.

"Yes," she replied, going to unpack her bag.
"Oh, and I'm a wicked, extravagant woman.
I know I s'll come to want."

He hopped to her side eagerly, to see her
latest extravagance. She unfolded another
lump of newspaper and disclosed some
roots of pansies and of crimson daisies.

"Four penn'orth!" she moaned.

"How CHEAP!" he cried.

"Yes, but I couldn't afford it THIS week of all
weeks."

miserable, watching the dark houses.
Suddenly a pinafore under a short coat was
seen, and a long-legged girl came flying up.

"Where's Billy Pillins an' your Annie an'
Eddie Dakin?"

"I don't know."

But it did not matter so much—there were
three now. They set up a game round the
lamp-post, till the others rushed up, yelling.
Then the play went fast and furious.

There was only this one lamp-post. Behind
was the great scoop of darkness, as if all
the night were there. In front, another wide,
dark way opened over the hill brow.
Occasionally somebody came out of this
way and went into the field down the path. In
a dozen yards the night had swallowed
them. The children played on.

They were brought exceedingly close
together owing to their isolation. If a quarrel
took place, the whole play was spoilt. Arthur
was very touchy, and Billy Pillins—really
Philips—was worse. Then Paul had to side
with Arthur, and on Paul's side went Alice,
while Billy Pillins always had Emmie Limb
and Eddie Dakin to back him up. Then the
six would fight, hate with a fury of hatred,
and flee home in terror. Paul never forgot,
after one of these fierce internecine fights,
seeing a big red moon lift itself up, slowly,
between the waste road over the hilltop,
steadily, like a great bird. And he thought of
the Bible, that the moon should be turned to
blood. And the next day he made haste to
be friends with Billy Pillins. And then the
wild, intense games went on again under
the lamp-post, surrounded by so much
darkness. Mrs. Morel, going into her
parlour, would hear the children singing
away:

"It is that," replied the man.

"Nay, you know you're flig to come up
again," she said.

And the man went on. Mrs. Dakin, going up
her yard, spied Mrs. Morel taking the ashes
to the ash-pit.

"I reckon Minton's knocked off, missis," she
cried.

"Isn't it sickenin!" exclaimed Mrs. Morel in
wrath.

"Ha! But I'n just seed Jont Hutchby."

"They might as well have saved their shoe-
leather," said Mrs. Morel. And both women
went indoors disgusted.

The colliers, their faces scarcely
blackened, were trooping home again.
Morel hated to go back. He loved the sunny
morning. But he had gone to pit to work, and
to be sent home again spoilt his temper.

"Good gracious, at this time!" exclaimed his
wife, as he entered.

"Can I help it, woman?" he shouted.

"And I've not done half enough dinner."

"Then I'll eat my bit o' snap as I took with
me," he bawled pathetically. He felt
ignominious and sore.

And the children, coming home from
school, would wonder to see their father
eating with his dinner the two thick slices of
rather dry and dirty bread-and-butter that
had been to pit and back. !" exclaimed his
wife.

"An' is it goin' to be wasted?" said Morel.

place. So the boy stood in the scullery,
where the temperature was nearly at
freezing-point, and whisked and whisked,
and flew in excitement to his mother as the
white of egg grew stiffer and more snowy.

"Just look, mother! Isn't it lovely?"

And he balanced a bit on his nose, then
blew it in the air.

"Now, don't waste it," said the mother.

Everybody was mad with excitement.
William was coming on Christmas Eve. Mrs.
Morel surveyed her pantry. There was a big
plum cake, and a rice cake, jam tarts,
lemon tarts, and mince-pies—two enormous
dishes. She was finishing cooking—Spanish
tarts and cheese-cakes. Everywhere was
decorated. The kissing bunch of berried
holly hung with bright and glittering things,
spun slowly over Mrs. Morel's head as she
trimmed her little tarts in the kitchen. A great
fire roared. There was a scent of cooked
pastry. He was due at seven o'clock, but he
would be late. The three children had gone
to meet him. She was alone. But at a quarter
to seven Morel came in again. Neither wife
nor husband spoke. He sat in his armchair,
quite awkward with excitement, and she
quietly went on with her baking. Only by the
careful way in which she did things could it
be told how much moved she was. The
clock ticked on.

"What time dost say he's coming?" Morel
asked for the fifth time.

"The train gets in at half-past six," she
replied emphatically.

"Then he'll be here at ten past seven."

"Eh, bless you, it'll be hours late on the
Midland," she said indifferently. But she

They all grew silent. He wasn't coming.
They looked down the darkness of the
railway. There was London! It seemed the
utter-most of distance. They thought
anything might happen if one came from
London. They were all too troubled to talk.
Cold, and unhappy, and silent, they huddled
together on the platform.

At last, after more than two hours, they saw
the lights of an engine peering round, away
down the darkness. A porter ran out. The
children drew back with beating hearts. A
great train, bound for Manchester, drew up.
Two doors opened, and from one of them,
William. They flew to him. He handed
parcels to them cheerily, and immediately
began to explain that this great train had
stopped for HIS sake at such a small station
as Sethley Bridge: it was not booked to
stop.

Meanwhile the parents were getting
anxious. The table was set, the chop was
cooked, everything was ready. Mrs. Morel
put on her black apron. She was wearing
her best dress. Then she sat, pretending to
read. The minutes were a torture to her.

"H'm!" said Morel. "It's an hour an' a ha'ef."

"And those children waiting!" she said.

"Th' train canna ha' come in yet," he said.

"I tell you, on Christmas Eve they're HOURS
wrong."

They were both a bit cross with each other,
so gnawed with anxiety. The ash tree
moaned outside in a cold, raw wind. And all
that space of night from London home! Mrs.
Morel suffered. The slight click of the works
inside the clock irritated her. It was getting
so late; it was getting unbearable.

fearless-looking. He looked round at the
evergreens and the kissing bunch, and the
little tarts that lay in their tins on the hearth.

"By jove! mother, it's not different!" he said,
as if in relief.

Everybody was still for a second. Then he
suddenly sprang forward, picked a tart from
the hearth, and pushed it whole into his
mouth.

"Well, did iver you see such a parish oven!"
the father exclaimed.

He had brought them endless presents.
Every penny he had he had spent on them.
There was a sense of luxury overflowing in
the house. For his mother there was an
umbrella with gold on the pale handle. She
kept it to her dying day, and would have lost
anything rather than that. Everybody had
something gorgeous, and besides, there
were pounds of unknown sweets: Turkish
delight, crystallised pineapple, and such-
like things which, the children thought, only
the splendour of London could provide. And
Paul boasted of these sweets among his
friends.

"Real pineapple, cut off in slices, and then
turned into crystal—fair grand!"

Everybody was mad with happiness in the
family. Home was home, and they loved it
with a passion of love, whatever the
suffering had been. There were parties,
there were rejoicings. People came in to
see William, to see what difference London
had made to him. And they all found him
"such a gentleman, and SUCH a fine fellow,
my word"!

When he went away again the children
retired to various places to weep alone.
Morel went to bed in misery, and Mrs. Morel

"Is this Walter Morel's?" he asked.

"Yes," said Mrs. Morel. "What is it?"

But she had guessed already.

"Your mester's got hurt," he said.

"Eh, dear me!" she exclaimed. "It's a
wonder if he hadn't, lad. And what's he
done this time?"

"I don't know for sure, but it's 'is leg
somewhere. They ta'ein' 'im ter th'
'ospital."

"Good gracious me!" she exclaimed. "Eh,
dear, what a one he is! There's not five
minutes of peace, I'll be hanged if there is!
His thumb's nearly better, and now— Did you
see him?"

"I seed him at th' bottom. An' I seed 'em
bring 'im up in a tub, an' 'e wor in a dead
faint. But he shouted like anythink when
Doctor Fraser examined him i' th' lamp
cabin—an' cossed an' swore, an' said as 'e
wor goin' to be ta'en whoam—'e worn't goin'
ter th' 'ospital."

The boy faltered to an end.

"He WOULD want to come home, so that I
can have all the bother. Thank you, my lad.
Eh, dear, if I'm not sick—sick and surfeited, I
am!"

She came downstairs. Paul had
mechanically resumed his painting.

"And it must be pretty bad if they've taken
him to the hospital," she went on. "But what
a CARELESS creature he is! OTHER men
don't have all these accidents. Yes, he
WOULD want to put all the burden on me.
Eh, dear, just as we WERE getting easy a

over the towel as she wiped her face.

"Yes, you have. You must drink a cup of tea
at any rate. Should I come with you to
Keston?"

"Come with me? What for, I should like to
know? Now, what have I to take him? Eh,
dear! His clean shirt—and it's a blessing it IS
clean. But it had better be aired. And
stockings—he won't want them—and a towel, I
suppose; and handkerchiefs. Now what
else?"

"A comb, a knife and fork and spoon," said
Paul. His father had been in the hospital
before.

"Goodness knows what sort of state his feet
were in," continued Mrs. Morel, as she
combed her long brown hair, that was fine
as silk, and was touched now with grey.
"He's very particular to wash himself to the
waist, but below he thinks doesn't matter.
But there, I suppose they see plenty like it."

Paul had laid the table. He cut his mother
one or two pieces of very thin bread and
butter.

"Here you are," he said, putting her cup of
tea in her place.

"I can't be bothered!" she exclaimed
crossly.

"Well, you've got to, so there, now it's put out
ready," he insisted.

So she sat down and sipped her tea, and
ate a little, in silence. She was thinking.

In a few minutes she was gone, to walk the
two and a half miles to Keston Station. All
the things she was taking him she had in her
bulging string bag. Paul watched her go up

Sister. She's an awfully nice Sister, but
rather strict."

Mrs. Morel took off her bonnet. The children
waited in silence.

"Of course, he IS bad," she continued, "and
he will be. It's a great shock, and he's lost a
lot of blood; and, of course, it IS a very
dangerous smash. It's not at all sure that it
will mend so easily. And then there's the
fever and the mortification—if it took bad
ways he'd quickly be gone. But there, he's a
clean-blooded man, with wonderful healing
flesh, and so I see no reason why it
SHOULD take bad ways. Of course there's
a wound—-"

She was pale now with emotion and
anxiety. The three children realised that it
was very bad for their father, and the house
was silent, anxious.

"But he always gets better," said Paul after
a while.

"That's what I tell him," said the mother.

Everybody moved about in silence.

"And he really looked nearly done for," she
said. "But the Sister says that is the pain."

Annie took away her mother's coat and
bonnet.

"And he looked at me when I came away! I
said: 'I s'll have to go now, Walter, because
of the train—and the children.' And he looked
at me. It seems hard."

Paul took up his brush again and went on
painting. Arthur went outside for some coal.
Annie sat looking dismal. And Mrs. Morel, in
her little rocking-chair that her husband had
made for her when the first baby was

"And of course," Mrs. Morel continued, "for
a man like your father, the hospital IS hard.
He CAN'T understand rules and
regulations. And he won't let anybody else
touch him, not if he can help it. When he
smashed the muscles of his thigh, and it
had to be dressed four times a day, WOULD
he let anybody but me or his mother do it?
He wouldn't. So, of course, he'll suffer in
there with the nurses. And I didn't like
leaving him. I'm sure, when I kissed him an'
came away, it seemed a shame."

So she talked to her son, almost as if she
were thinking aloud to him, and he took it in
as best he could, by sharing her trouble to
lighten it. And in the end she shared almost
everything with him without knowing.

Morel had a very bad time. For a week he
was in a critical condition. Then he began to
mend. And then, knowing he was going to
get better, the whole family sighed with
relief, and proceeded to live happily.

They were not badly off whilst Morel was in
the hospital. There were fourteen shillings a
week from the pit, ten shillings from the sick
club, and five shillings from the Disability
Fund; and then every week the butties had
something for Mrs. Morel—five or seven
shillings—so that she was quite well to do.
And whilst Morel was progressing
favourably in the hospital, the family was
extraordinarily happy and peaceful. On
Saturdays and Wednesdays Mrs. Morel
went to Nottingham to see her husband.
Then she always brought back some little
thing: a small tube of paints for Paul, or
some thick paper; a couple of postcards for
Annie, that the whole family rejoiced over
for days before the girl was allowed to send
them away; or a fret-saw for Arthur, or a bit
of pretty wood. She described her
adventures into the big shops with joy.
Soon the folk in the picture-shop knew her,

his hands, preferred racing about, or
making excursions into the country, or
reading, or painting.

"What do you want to be?" his mother asked.

"Anything."

"That is no answer," said Mrs. Morel.

But it was quite truthfully the only answer he
could give. His ambition, as far as this
world's gear went, was quietly to earn his
thirty or thirty-five shillings a week
somewhere near home, and then, when his
father died, have a cottage with his mother,
paint and go out as he liked, and live happy
ever after. That was his programme as far
as doing things went. But he was proud
within himself, measuring people against
himself, and placing them, inexorably. And
he thought that PERHAPS he might also
make a painter, the real thing. But that he
left alone.

"Then," said his mother, "you must look in
the paper for the advertisements."

He looked at her. It seemed to him a bitter
humiliation and an anguish to go through.
But he said nothing. When he got up in the
morning, his whole being was knotted up
over this one thought:

"I've got to go and look for advertisements
for a job."

It stood in front of the morning, that thought,
killing all joy and even life, for him. His heart
felt like a tight knot.

And then, at ten o'clock, he set off. He was
supposed to be a queer, quiet child. Going
up the sunny street of the little town, he felt
as if all the folk he met said to themselves:
"He's going to the Co-op. reading-room to

brewer's waggoner."

Then, the room being at last empty, he
would hastily copy an advertisement on a
scrap of paper, then another, and slip out in
immense relief. His mother would scan over
his copies.

"Yes," she said, "you may try."

William had written out a letter of
application, couched in admirable business
language, which Paul copied, with
variations. The boy's handwriting was
execrable, so that William, who did all things
well, got into a fever of impatience.

The elder brother was becoming quite
swanky. In London he found that he could
associate with men far above his Bestwood
friends in station. Some of the clerks in the
office had studied for the law, and were
more or less going through a kind of
apprenticeship. William always made
friends among men wherever he went, he
was so jolly. Therefore he was soon visiting
and staying in houses of men who, in
Bestwood, would have looked down on the
unapproachable bank manager, and would
merely have called indifferently on the
Rector. So he began to fancy himself as a
great gun. He was, indeed, rather surprised
at the ease with which he became a
gentleman.

His mother was glad, he seemed so
pleased. And his lodging in Walthamstow
was so dreary. But now there seemed to
come a kind of fever into the young man's
letters. He was unsettled by all the change,
he did not stand firm on his own feet, but
seemed to spin rather giddily on the quick
current of the new life. His mother was
anxious for him. She could feel him losing
himself. He had danced and gone to the
theatre, boated on the river, been out with

son. She saw him saddled with an elegant
and expensive wife, earning little money,
dragging along and getting draggled in
some small, ugly house in a suburb. "But
there," she told herself, "I am very likely a
silly—meeting trouble halfway."
Nevertheless, the load of anxiety scarcely
ever left her heart, lest William should do the
wrong thing by himself.

Presently, Paul was bidden call upon
Thomas Jordan, Manufacturer of Surgical
Appliances, at 21, Spaniel Row,
Nottingham. Mrs. Morel was all joy.

"There, you see!" she cried, her eyes
shining. "You've only written four letters, and
the third is answered. You're lucky, my boy,
as I always said you were."

Paul looked at the picture of a wooden leg,
adorned with elastic stockings and other
appliances, that figured on Mr. Jordan's
notepaper, and he felt alarmed. He had not
known that elastic stockings existed. And
he seemed to feel the business world, with
its regulated system of values, and its
impersonality, and he dreaded it. It seemed
monstrous also that a business could be run
on wooden legs.

Mother and son set off together one
Tuesday morning. It was August and blazing
hot. Paul walked with something screwed
up tight inside him. He would have suffered
much physical pain rather than this
unreasonable suffering at being exposed to
strangers, to be accepted or rejected. Yet
he chattered away with his mother. He
would never have confessed to her how he
suffered over these things, and she only
partly guessed. She was gay, like a
sweetheart. She stood in front of the ticket-
office at Bestwood, and Paul watched her
take from her purse the money for the
tickets. As he saw her hands in their old

"Yes."

They had plenty of time, so they did not
hurry. The town was strange and delightful
to them. But the boy was tied up inside in a
knot of apprehension. He dreaded the
interview with Thomas Jordan.

It was nearly eleven o'clock by St. Peter's
Church. They turned up a narrow street that
led to the Castle. It was gloomy and old-
fashioned, having low dark shops and dark
green house doors with brass knockers,
and yellow-ochred doorsteps projecting on
to the pavement; then another old shop
whose small window looked like a cunning,
half-shut eye. Mother and son went
cautiously, looking everywhere for "Thomas
Jordan and Son". It was like hunting in some
wild place. They were on tiptoe of
excitement.

Suddenly they spied a big, dark archway, in
which were names of various firms,
Thomas Jordan among them.

"Here it is!" said Mrs. Morel. "But now
WHERE is it?"

They looked round. On one side was a
queer, dark, cardboard factory, on the other
a Commercial Hotel.

"It's up the entry," said Paul.

And they ventured under the archway, as
into the jaws of the dragon. They emerged
into a wide yard, like a well, with buildings
all round. It was littered with straw and
boxes, and cardboard. The sunshine
actually caught one crate whose straw was
streaming on to the yard like gold. But
elsewhere the place was like a pit. There
were several doors, and two flights of
steps. Straight in front, on a dirty glass door
at the top of a staircase, loomed the

"Good-morning. I came with my son, Paul
Morel. You asked him to call this morning."

"Come this way," said Mr. Jordan, in a
rather snappy little manner intended to be
businesslike.

They followed the manufacturer into a
grubby little room, upholstered in black
American leather, glossy with the rubbing of
many customers. On the table was a pile of
trusses, yellow wash-leather hoops tangled
together. They looked new and living. Paul
sniffed the odour of new wash-leather. He
wondered what the things were. By this time
he was so much stunned that he only
noticed the outside things.

"Sit down!" said Mr. Jordan, irritably
pointing Mrs. Morel to a horse-hair chair.
She sat on the edge in an uncertain fashion.
Then the little old man fidgeted and found a
paper.

"Did you write this letter?" he snapped,
thrusting what Paul recognised as his own
notepaper in front of him.

"Yes," he answered.

At that moment he was occupied in two
ways: first, in feeling guilty for telling a lie,
since William had composed the letter;
second, in wondering why his letter seemed
so strange and different, in the fat, red hand
of the man, from what it had been when it
lay on the kitchen table. It was like part of
himself, gone astray. He resented the way
the man held it.

"Where did you learn to write?" said the old
man crossly.

Paul merely looked at him shamedly, and
did not answer.

"'Sir,—Please send me'—er—er—I can't tell
the—er—'two pairs—gris fil bas—grey thread
stockings'—er—er—'sans—without'—er—I can't tell
the words—er—'doigts—fingers'—er—I can't tell
the—-"

He wanted to say "handwriting", but the
word still refused to come. Seeing him
stuck, Mr. Jordan snatched the paper from
him.

"'Please send by return two pairs grey
thread stockings without TOES.'"

"Well," flashed Paul, "'doigts' means
'fingers'—as well—as a rule—-"

The little man looked at him. He did not
know whether "doigts" meant "fingers"; he
knew that for all HIS purposes it meant
"toes".

"Fingers to stockings!" he snapped.

"Well, it DOES mean fingers," the boy
persisted.

He hated the little man, who made such a
clod of him. Mr. Jordan looked at the pale,
stupid, defiant boy, then at the mother, who
sat quiet and with that peculiar shut-off look
of the poor who have to depend on the
favour of others.

"And when could he come?" he asked.

"Well," said Mrs. Morel, "as soon as you
wish. He has finished school now."

"He would live in Bestwood?"

"Yes; but he could be in—at the station—at
quarter to eight."

"H'm!"

or twice in his life, and then only to have a
cup of tea and a bun. Most of the people of
Bestwood considered that tea and bread-
and-butter, and perhaps potted beef, was
all they could afford to eat in Nottingham.
Real cooked dinner was considered great
extravagance. Paul felt rather guilty.

They found a place that looked quite cheap.
But when Mrs. Morel scanned the bill of
fare, her heart was heavy, things were so
dear. So she ordered kidney-pies and
potatoes as the cheapest available dish.

"We oughtn't to have come here, mother,"
said Paul.

"Never mind," she said. "We won't come
again."

She insisted on his having a small currant
tart, because he liked sweets.

"I don't want it, mother," he pleaded.

"Yes," she insisted; "you'll have it."

And she looked round for the waitress. But
the waitress was busy, and Mrs. Morel did
not like to bother her then. So the mother
and son waited for the girl's pleasure, whilst
she flirted among the men.

"Brazen hussy!" said Mrs. Morel to Paul.
"Look now, she's taking that man HIS
pudding, and he came long after us."

"It doesn't matter, mother," said Paul.

Mrs. Morel was angry. But she was too
poor, and her orders were too meagre, so
that she had not the courage to insist on her
rights just then. They waited and waited.

"Should we go, mother?" he said.

Paul saw, in the darkness of the shop, an
elegant young lady in black peering over the
counter curiously.

"They're looking at you," he said, trying to
draw his mother away.

"But what is it?" she exclaimed, refusing to
be moved.

"Stocks!" he answered, sniffing hastily.
"Look, there's a tubful."

"So there is—red and white. But really, I never
knew stocks to smell like it!" And, to his
great relief, she moved out of the doorway,
but only to stand in front of the window.

"Paul!" she cried to him, who was trying to
get out of sight of the elegant young lady in
black—the shop-girl. "Paul! Just look here!"

He came reluctantly back.

"Now, just look at that fuchsia!" she
exclaimed, pointing.

"H'm!" He made a curious, interested
sound. "You'd think every second as the
flowers was going to fall off, they hang so
big an' heavy."

"And such an abundance!" she cried.

"And the way they drop downwards with
their threads and knots!"

"Yes!" she exclaimed. "Lovely!"

"I wonder who'll buy it!" he said.

"I wonder!" she answered. "Not us."

"It would die in our parlour."

"Yes, beastly cold, sunless hole; it kills every

He has given me ten shillings—twice; and
now I know he hasn't a farthing if I asked
him. Not that I want it. Only just now you'd
think he might be able to help with this
ticket, which I'd never expected."

"He earns a lot," said Paul.

"He earns a hundred and thirty pounds. But
they're all alike. They're large in promises,
but it's precious little fulfilment you get."

"He spends over fifty shillings a week on
himself," said Paul.

"And I keep this house on less than thirty,"
she replied; "and am supposed to find
money for extras. But they don't care about
helping you, once they've gone. He'd rather
spend it on that dressed-up creature."

"She should have her own money if she's so
grand," said Paul.

"She should, but she hasn't. I asked him.
And I know he doesn't buy her a gold bangle
for nothing. I wonder whoever bought ME a
gold bangle."

William was succeeding with his "Gipsy", as
he called her. He asked the girl—her name
was Louisa Lily Denys Western—for a
photograph to send to his mother. The photo
came—a handsome brunette, taken in
profile, smirking slightly—and, it might be,
quite naked, for on the photograph not a
scrap of clothing was to be seen, only a
naked bust.

"Yes," wrote Mrs. Morel to her son, "the
photograph of Louie is very striking, and I
can see she must be attractive. But do you
think, my boy, it was very good taste of a girl
to give her young man that photo to send to
his mother—the first? Certainly the shoulders
are beautiful, as you say. But I hardly

Presently the new photograph came, with a
little silly note from the girl. This time the
young lady was seen in a black satin
evening bodice, cut square, with little puff
sleeves, and black lace hanging down her
beautiful arms.

"I wonder if she ever wears anything except
evening clothes," said Mrs. Morel
sarcastically. "I'm sure I ought to be
impressed."

"You are disagreeable, mother," said Paul.
"I think the first one with bare shoulders is
lovely."

"Do you?" answered his mother. "Well, I
don't."

On the Monday morning the boy got up at six
to start work. He had the season-ticket,
which had cost such bitterness, in his
waistcoat pocket. He loved it with its bars of
yellow across. His mother packed his
dinner in a small, shut-up basket, and he
set off at a quarter to seven to catch the 7.15
train. Mrs. Morel came to the entry-end to
see him off.

It was a perfect morning. From the ash tree
the slender green fruits that the children call
"pigeons" were twinkling gaily down on a
little breeze, into the front gardens of the
houses. The valley was full of a lustrous dark
haze, through which the ripe corn
shimmered, and in which the steam from
Minton pit melted swiftly. Puffs of wind
came. Paul looked over the high woods of
Aldersley, where the country gleamed, and
home had never pulled at him so powerfully.

"Good-morning, mother," he said, smiling,
but feeling very unhappy.

"Good-morning," she replied cheerfully and
tenderly.

"Paul Morel."

"Paul Morel? All right, you come on round
here."

Paul followed him round the rectangle of
counters. The room was second storey. It
had a great hole in the middle of the floor,
fenced as with a wall of counters, and down
this wide shaft the lifts went, and the light for
the bottom storey. Also there was a
corresponding big, oblong hole in the
ceiling, and one could see above, over the
fence of the top floor, some machinery; and
right away overhead was the glass roof,
and all light for the three storeys came
downwards, getting dimmer, so that it was
always night on the ground floor and rather
gloomy on the second floor. The factory was
the top floor, the warehouse the second, the
storehouse the ground floor. It was an
insanitary, ancient place.

Paul was led round to a very dark corner.

"This is the 'Spiral' corner," said the clerk.
"You're Spiral, with Pappleworth. He's your
boss, but he's not come yet. He doesn't get
here till half-past eight. So you can fetch the
letters, if you like, from Mr. Melling down
there."

The young man pointed to the old clerk in the
office.

"All right," said Paul.

"Here's a peg to hang your cap on. Here are
your entry ledgers. Mr. Pappleworth won't
be long."

And the thin young man stalked away with
long, busy strides over the hollow wooden
floor.

After a minute or two Paul went down and