staunchly protesting against the words that
had been used, and instinctively addressing
himself to Louisa, after glancing at her face.
"Not rebels, nor yet rascals. Nowt o' th'
kind, ma'am, nowt o' th' kind. They've not
doon me a kindness, ma'am, as I know
and feel. But there's not a dozen men
amoong 'em, ma'am—a dozen? Not six—
but what believes as he has doon his duty by
the rest and by himseln. God forbid as I, that
ha known an had'n experience o' these men
aw my life—I, that ha' ett'n an droonken
wi' em, an seet'n wi' em, an toil'n wi' em,
and lov'n 'em, should fail fur to stan by 'em
wi' the truth, let 'em ha doon to me what
they may!"

He spoke with the rugged earnestness of
his place and character—deepened perhaps
by a proud consciousness that lie was faithful
to his class under all their mistrust; but he
fully remembered where he was, and did not
even raise his voice.

"No, ma'am, no. They're true to one
another, faithfo' to one another, fectionate
to one another, e'en to death. Be poor
amoong 'em, be sick amoong 'em, grieve
amoong 'em for onny o' th' monny causes that
carries grief to the poor man's door, an
they'll be tender wi' yo, gentle wi' yo,
comfortable wi' yo, Chrisen wi' yo. Be sure o'
that, ma'am. They'd be riven to bits, ere
ever they'd be different."

"In short," said Mr. Bounderby, "it's
because they are so full of virtues that they
have turned you adrift. Go through with it
while you are about it. Out with it."

"How 'tis, ma'am," resumed Stephen,
appearing still to find his natural refuge in
Louisa's face, "that what is best in us fok,
seems to turn us most to trouble an misfort'n
an mistake, I dunno. But 'tis so. I know
'tis, as I know the heavens is over me ahint
the smoke. We 're patient too, an wants in
general to do right. An' I canna think the
fawt is aw wi' us."

"Now, my friend," said Mr. Bounderby,
whom he could not have exasperated more,
quite unconscious of it though he was,
than by seeming to appeal to any one else,
"if you will favor me with your attention for
half a minute, I should like to have a word or
two with you. You said just now, that you
had nothing to tell us about this business.
You are quite sure of that, before we go any
further?"

"Sir, I am sure on't."

"Here's a gentleman from London present,"
Mr. Bounderby made a back-handed
point at Mr. James Harthouse with his thumb,
"a Parliament gentleman. I should like
him to hear a short bit of dialogue between
you and me, instead of taking the substance
of it—for I know precious well, beforehand,
what it will be; nobody knows better than
I do, take notice!—instead of receiving it on
trust, from my mouth."

Stephen bent his head to the gentleman
from London, and showed a rather more
troubled mind than usual. He turned his
eyes involuntarily to his former refuge, but
at a look from that quarter (expressive though
instantaneous) he settled them on Mr.
Bounderby's face.

"Now, what do you complain of? " asked
Mr. Bounderby.

"I ha' not coom heer, sir," Stephen
reminded him, "to complain. I coom for that
I were sent for."

"What," repeated Mr. Bounderby, folding
his arms, "do you people, in a general way,
complain of?"

Stephen looked at him with some little
irresolution for a moment, and then seemed
to make up his mind.

"Sir, I were never good at showin o't,
though I ha had'n my share in feeling o't.
'Deed we are in a muddle, sir. Look round
town—so rich as 'tis—and see th' numbers o'
people as has been broughten into bein heer,
fur to weave, an to card, an to piece out a
livin, aw the same one way, somehows,
twixt their cradles an their graves. Look
how we live, an wheer we live, an in what
numbers, an by what chances, an wi' what
sameness; and look how the mills is awlus a
goin, an how they never works us no nigher
to onny dis'ant object—ceptin awlus, Death.
Look how you considers of us, an writes of us,
an talks of us, an goes up wi' yor deputations
to Secretaries o' State 'bout us, an how yo
are awlus right, an how we are awlus wrong,
and never had'n no reason in us sin ever we
were born. Look how this ha growen an
growen, sir, bigger an bigger, broader an
broader, harder "an harder, fro year to year,
fro generation unto generation. Who can look
on't, sir, and fairly tell a man 'tis not a
muddle?"

"Of course," said Mr. Bounderby. ''Now
perhaps you'll let the gentleman know, how
you would set this muddle (as you're so fond
of calling it) to rights."

"Idonno, sir. I canna be expecten to't.
'Tis not me as should be looken to for that,
sir. 'Tis them as is put ower me, an ower aw
the rest of us. What do they tak upon
themsen, sir, if not to do't?"

"I'll tell you something towards it, at any
rate," returned Mr. Bounderby. "We will
make an example of half a dozen
Slackbridges. We'll indict the blackguards for
felony, and get 'em shipped off to penal
settlements."

Stephen gravely shook his head.

"Don't tell me we won't, man," said Mr.
Bounderby, by this time blowing a hurricane,
"because we will, I tell you!"

"Sir," returned Stephen, with the quiet
confidence of absolute certainty, "if yo was
t' tak a hundred Slackbridges—aw as there
is, an aw the number ten times towd—an
was t' sew 'em up in separate sacks, an
sink 'em in the deepest ocean as were made
ere ever dry land coom to be, yo'd leave the