. Ah, the old craft is gone," he said. "We sang like crickets,
laughing at the idea that a frost might come in the shape of a machine
to set type; we worked three days a week and spent our money, with no
thought of the destroyer slowly forming fingers of steel under the
lamp light. But the machine came. It was like the bursting of a shell,
and our army, the most intelligent body of craftsmen ever known, was
scattered over the face of the land. Once in a while I had a serious
moment, and I kept up my life insurance, but what is to become of the
other women and children the Lord only knows."

"The picturesque old philosopher known as the tramp printer is only a
memory now," said Lyman. "I have seen him strolling along the road,
sore of foot, stubble-faced, almost ragged, hungry, but with a cynical
head full of contempt for the man of regular habits. I recall one
particularly--Barney Caldwell."

"What?" cried Hillit, raising upon his elbows, "did you know old
Barney? He was once foreman of an office in Cincinnati where I was a
cub. He was comparatively young then, but they called him the old man.
And what a disciplinarian! He used to say, 'Boys, if you get drunk
with me it is your own look out, and if you don't walk the chalk line
that's my look out. Don't expect favors, because you happen to be a
good fellow.' One day, he came into the office, and after starting to
put on his apron he hesitated, and turning to a fellow named Hicks, he
said: 'Charley, I've a notion to be a gentleman once more.' Then I
heard a man standing near me say: 'There'll be a vacant foremanship in
this office within five minutes. The old man is going to take to the
road.' And he did. He resigned his position and walked out. Life was
worth living in those days, Mr. Lyman."

Just at this moment Mrs. Hillit appeared at the door. "The young lady
who brought the flowers has come again," she said. Lyman looked up and
his heart leaped, for, in the hall-way, stood Eva with her hands full
of roses. She turned pale at seeing him, but with the color returning
she came forward and held out her hand. Hillit's wasted eye, slow in
movement but quick in conception, divined the meaning of the changing
color of her face, and when his wife had brought a vase for the roses,
he said: "I hope you two will talk just as if I wasn't here. And I
won't be here long, you know."

"William," his wife spoke up, turning from the table whereon she had
placed the young woman's c