Elsewhere Knox, Robert Life and others had taken up their positions at the breast of the vats with their assistants about them, and the work of paper-making went on its immemorial way. Then that happened that was long remembered—an incident of interest and concern for the many, a tragedy for the one. Kellock brought up his mould, and instead of proceeding with the rhythmic actions to right and left—those delicate operations of exquisite complexity where brain telegraphed to muscle, and motor and sensory nerves both played their part in the completion of the “stroke”—instead of the usual beautiful and harmonious gestures that drained the mould and laid a sweet, even face of paper upon it, he found forces invisible at his elbows and an enemy still more terrible within. His brain hung fire; a wave of horrible doubt and irresolution swept over him. It ran through the physical parts engaged—his arms and breast muscles and the small of his back. He stared at the mould, turned and washed off the faulty sheet he had created, and made an attempt at a jest to Harold Spry, who was watching, all eyes. “Where are my wits, Harold?” he said. Then he took a deep breath, and dipped the mould again. Spry and the layer watched sympathetically. To their eyes there seemed no failure as Kellock drew up his load; but he knew. A condition of tremendous tension raised his heart-beat to a gallop, and his eyes grew misty. He gasped like a drowning man, and felt the sweat beading on his forehead. “I’ll—I’ll just get a breath of air and come back,” he said, dropped the mould, and went out of the shop. Spry washed the mould, then he walked down the line of vats and spoke to Knox. A man came from the engine house with a message, and Ernest Trood also entered with some information for Robert Life. What he heard made him hasten out of doors to find Kellock sitting up on a form at the entrance of the vat house with his head in his hands. “What’s the matter, my son?” asked Trood, kindly enough; but a look at Jordan told him all he feared to hear. The young man’s expression had changed, and there was fear in his eyes, as though they had just mirrored some awful thing. The resolute, closely-knit Kellock seemed to have fallen to pieces. Every limb indicated the nerve storm under which he suffered. Trood was experienced, and knew the danger. He believed that Kellock had given in too soon. “Fight—fight like hell!” he said. “Don’t run away from it. Don’t give it time to get into you. Come back now, lad—this minute. At your age, it’s nothing—just indigestion, or a chill about you. If you let it fester, you’ll go from bad to worse, and very like have to knock off for six months before you look at a mould again.” “It’s no good—it’s gone,” said the younger man; but he obeyed, and followed Trood into the vat house. Knox had warned the rest to ignore the sufferer, and no man took any notice of Kellock as he returned. Spry was waiting, and greeted him cheerfully.