people's houses. Nearly all of Hatton's
spinners own, or partly own, their homes. In its seclusion they can bear
with patience whatever they have to bear."

Throughout the past three years of trouble John had been the Greatheart
of his people, and they loved and trusted him. They knew that he had
mortgaged or sold all his estate in order to buy cotton and keep them at
work. They knew that all other factories in the neighborhood had long
been closed and that for the last four months Hatton had been running
only half-time, and alas! John knew that his cotton was nearly gone and
that peace appeared to be as far off as ever.

"You see, sir," said Greenwood, in a half-admiring and half-apologizing
way, "both North and South are mostly of good English breed and they
don't know when they are whipped."

One afternoon Mrs. Stephen Hatton called at the mill to see John. It was
such a strange thing for her to do that he was almost frightened when he
heard of it. Strengthening his heart for anything, he went to his
private room to meet her, and his anxiety was so evident that she said
immediately in her cheerful comforting way,

"Nay, nay, my lad, there is nothing extra for thee to worry about. I
only want thee to look after something in a hurry--it must be in a
hurry, or I would not have come for thee."

"I know, mother. What is it?"

"They have brought thirty-four little children from Metwold here, and
they are in a state of starvation. I want thee to see about getting
mattresses and blankets into the spinners' lecture room. I have looked
after food for them."

"Have you anything to spare for this purpose, mother?"

"No, I hev not, John. The town hes plenty. They will do whatever thou
tells them to do."

"Very well, mother. I will go at once."

"I hev been in the village all day. I hev seen that every poor nursing
woman hes hed some soup and tea and that these thirty-four little ones
were well and properly fed. Now I am going home to save every drop of
milk I can spare for them."

"Is it fair for Metwold to send her starving children here?"

"If thou could see them, John, thou would never ask that question. Some
of them are under three years old. They are only skin and bone, they are
as white as if they were dead--helpless, enfeebled, crippled, and, John,
three of them are stone blind from starvation!"

"O my God!" cried John, in an acute passion of pity and entreaty.

"Every sign of severe and speechless misery