like make-believe houses or huge stage-properties, they had so little
individuality or likeness to the old-fashioned buildings that made
homes for people out on the farms. There was more homelikeness in the
sparrows' nests, or even the toylike railroad station at the end of
the main street, for that was warmed by steam, and the station-master's
wife, thriftily taking advantage of the steady heat, brought her
house-plants there and kept them all winter on the broad window-sills.

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

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

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

"Mis' Kilpatrick, ma'am," she said one morning. "Faix, they ain't
fo