in a given space of time. She knew them
in crowds passing to and from their nests,
like ants or beetles. But she knew from her
reading infinitely more of the ways of toiling
insects, than of these toiling men and women.

Something to be worked so much and paid
so much, and there ended; something to be
infallibly settled by laws of supply and
demand; something that blundered against
those laws, and floundered into difficulty;
something that was a little pinched when
wheat was dear, and over-ate itself when
wheat was cheap; something that increased
at such a rate of percentage, and yielded such
another percentage of crime, and such
another percentage of pauperism; something
wholesale, of which vast fortunes were made;
something that occasionally rose like a sea, and
did some harm and waste (chiefly to itself),
and fell again; this she knew the Coketown
Hands to be. But, she had scarcely thought
more of separating them into units, than of
separating the sea itself into its component
drops.

She stood for some moments looking round
the room. From the few chairs, the few
books, the common prints, and the bed, she
glanced to the two women, and to Stephen.

"I have come to speak to you, in
consequence of what passed just now. I should
like to be serviceable to you, if you will let me.
Is this your wife?"

Rachael raised her eyes, and they sufficiently
answered no, and dropped again.

"I remember," said Louisa, reddening at
her mistake; "I recollect, now, to have heard
your domestic misfortunes spoken of, though
I was not attending to the particulars at the
time. It was not my meaning to ask a
question that would give pain to any one here. If
I should ask any other question that may
happen to have that result, give me credit, if
you please, for being in ignorance how to
speak to you as I ought."

As Stephen had but a little while ago
instinctively addressed himself to her, so she
now instinctively addressed herself to Rachael.
Her manner was short and abrupt, yet faltering
and timid.

"He has told you what has passed between
himself and my husband  You would be
his first resource, I think."

"I have heard the end of it, young lady,"
said Rachael.

"Did I understand, that, being rejected by
one employer, he would probably be rejected
by all? I thought he said as much?"

"The chances are very small, young lady—
next to nothing—for a man who gets a bad
name among them."

"What shall I understand that you mean
by a bad name?"

"The name of being troublesome."

"Then, by the prejudices of his own class,
and by the prejudices of the other, he is
sacrificed alike? Are the two so deeply
separated in this town, that there is no place
whatever, for an honest workman between
them? "

Rachael shook her head in silence.

"He fell into suspicion," said Louisa, "with
his fellow-weavers, because he had made a
promise not to be one of them. I think it
must have been to you that he made that
promise. Might I ask you why he made
it?"

Rachael burst into tears. "I didn't seek it
of him, poor lad. I prayed him to avoid
trouble for his own good, little thinking he'd
come to it through me. But I know he'd
die a hundred deaths, ere ever he'd break his
word. I know that of him well."

Stephen had remained quietly attentive, in
his usual thoughtful attitude, with his hand
at his chin. He now spoke in a voice rather
less steady than usual.

"No one. excepting myseln, can ever know
what honor, an what love, an respect, I bear
to Rachael, or wi' what cause. When I
passed that promess, I towd her true, she
were th' Angel o' my life. 'Twere a solemn
promess. 'Tis gone fro me, fur ever."

Louisa turned her head to him, and bent it
with a deference that was new in her. She
looked from him to Rachael, and her features
softened. "What will you do? " she asked
him. And her voice had softened too.

"Weel, maam," said Stephen, making the
best of it, with a smile; "when I ha finished
off, I mun quit this part, an try another.
Fortnet or misfortnet, a man can but try;
there's nowt to be done wi'out tryin'—cept
laying doon an dying."

"How will you travel?"

"Afoot, my kind ledy, afoot."

Louisa colored, and a purse appeared in
her hand. The rustling of a bank-note was
audible, as she unfolded one and laid it on the
table.

"Rachael, will you tell him—for you know
how, without offence—that this is freely his,
to help him on his way? Will you entreat
him to take it?"

"I canna' do that, young lady," she
answered, turning her head aside; "bless
you for thinking o' the poor lad wi' such
tenderness. But 'tis for him to know his
heart, and what is right according to it."

Louisa looked, in part incredulous, in part
frightened, in part overcome with quick
sympathy, when this man of so much self-
command who had been so plain and steady
through the late interview, lost his
composure in a moment, and now stood with his
hand before his face. She stretched out
hers, as if she would have touched him;
then checked herself, and remained still.

"Not e'en Rachael," said Stephen, when
he stood again with his face uncovered,
"could mak sitch a kind offerin, by onny
words, kinder. T' show that I'm not a
man wi'out reason and gratitude, I'll tak
two pound. I'll borrow't for t' pay't back.
'Twill be the sweetest work as ever I ha