o the draught. Marcella soon made out the
poor little bronchitic boy, sitting coughing by the fire, and Mrs. Hurd
busied with some washing. She introduced Wharton, who, as before, stood
for some time, hat in hand, studying the cottage. Marcella was perfectly
conscious of it, and a blush rose to her cheek while she talked to Mrs.
Hurd. For both this and Mrs. Jellison's hovel were her father's property
and somewhat highly rented.

Minta Hurd said eagerly that she would join the new straw-plaiting, and
went on to throw out a number of hurried, half-coherent remarks about
the state of the trade past and present, leaning meanwhile against the
table and endlessly drying her hands on the towel she had taken up when
her visitors came in.

Her manner was often nervous and flighty in these days. She never looked
happy; but Marcella put it down to health or natural querulousness of
character. Yet both she and the children were clearly better nourished,
except Willie, in whom the tubercular tendency was fast gaining on the
child's strength.

Altogether Marcella was proud of her work, and her eager interest in
this little knot of people whose lives she had shaped was more
possessive than ever. Hurd, indeed, was often silent and secretive; but
she put down her difficulties with him to our odious system of class
differences, against which in her own way she was struggling. One thing
delighted her--that he seemed to take more and more interest in the
labour questions she discussed with him, and in that fervid, exuberant
literature she provided him with. Moreover, he now went to all Mr.
Wharton's meetings that were held within reasonable distance of Mellor;
and, as she said to Aldous with a little laugh, which, however, was not
unsweet, _he_ had found her man work--_she_ had robbed his candidate of
a vote.

Wharton listened a while to her talk with Minta, smiled a little,
unperceived of Marcella, at the young mother's docilities of manner and
phrase; then turned his attention to the little hunched and coughing
object by the fire.

"Are you very bad, little man?"

The white-faced child looked up, a dreary look, revealing a patient,
melancholy soul. He tried to answer, but coughed instead.

Wharton, moving towards him, saw a bit of ragged white paper lying on
the ground, which had been torn from a grocery parcel.

"Would you like something to amuse you a bit--Ugh! this smoke! Come
round here, it won't catch us so much. _Now_, th