"I must shake it off!" he declared resolutely. Of what avail would be going home to a wife's peevish complaints, and sit by himself to study out this tangle? As well stay here, and master it. And that palace yonder was home, and these were the comforts for which he had spent his years and his energies! This was what he had laid up. An inheritance incorruptible--why would these things come back to him? The mill-bell began its clang. He listened to the tramp through the passage-ways, the confusion of voices. He went to the window. The great gates for the work-hands were around on the other side; but he could see the motley procession filing down the street. Not gay and cheerful as in bygone days: they seemed to drag along, these girls and women in shabby clothes, their shawls drawn around their shoulders. Old men and boys--why, where had vigorous middle life disappeared? So many faces had a hard, discontented look, that pierced him like the sharp point of ingratitude. Had he not brought himself to ruin to give the people employment? If he had shut down the mill three years ago, he would have been a rich man. Well, why had he not? Was it thought for them? Had the prospect of their starving lain heavily on his soul? Ah, the love of money-getting, the fiend of covetousness! But what would these people have done? Some one had once said, "What is that to thee? Follow thou me." Was it in a sermon? He lighted the gas, and went on wearily with his books. Some one opened the door softly, and peered in. It was Farrell, the day-man. When he saw Mr. Lawrence he touched his cap respectfully. "Pardon me, sir: I saw a light"-- "Yes, I am going to stay--all night, I think: I shall be busy. When does the night-man come?" "At seven, sir." "I will send a note up to Hope Terrace, Farrell. Could you take it?" The man thought of his long day's work and his waiting supper. "Yes," he answered rather reluctantly. "Stop in, then, when you go." Farrell went off grumbling. He would go home to supper first, that he would. These men had no souls. That long walk-- Some people always rode in chaises, were born with silver spoons in their mouths, and looked on the rest of the world as mere lackeys! There was some wine in the closet, and Mr. Lawrence took a glass to clear his brain. He rarely used it save at dinner. Then back to the tormenting books,--columns of business that appeared incredible now. How had all this money slipped away? Farrell tapped, and came in. "Jackson's here now, sir. Is the note ready?" "Yes. There is some change. Get a hack, Farrell: it is too far to walk. Did Mr. Eastman"-- There was so long a pause that Farrell said,-- "Mr. Eastman went to New York. He said he might not be back to-morrow." Mr. Lawrence nodded, as if that were sufficient. He would not peer into the man's business.