“They do—they do. If anything happened to mother, I don’t know what would become of Aunt and Uncle—let alone all the children.” “They don’t know their luck,” he said, and Medora agreed with him. “I’m glad you see it. I’ve often thought that—so have other people. My mother at Priory Farm is like a cheese-cake in a pigstye.” “Strong, but not too strong. She must have great affection for them to stand it.” “Once a man offered for mother,” said Medora; “and, at the first whisper of it, Uncle Tom and Aunt Polly pretty well went on their knees to her not to leave them.” “I can well believe it. It didn’t come to anything, however?” “No, no—mother’s not for another husband.” “If anything might make her think upon such a change, it would be that household surely.” “No,” answered Medora. “It’s just that helpless household that would make her sacrifice herself. Duty’s her God. She’s mother to all those children—more their mother than Aunt Polly in a way—for my aunt is so busy bringing them into the world, that she’s got to leave all the rest of the work to other people.” Mr. Knox shook his head. “It’s contrary to nature that such a fine woman as Mrs. Trivett should hide her light under that bushel,” he asserted. “It’s a very selfish thing to let her slave and wear her fingers to the bone like that; but it often happens so. A husband and wife with a long family always seem to fasten on some good-natured, kindly creature and drag her in their house to be a slave to their children. There’s no selfishness like the selfishness of a pair with a long quiver. They’ll fairly batter the life out of anybody who’s fool enough to lend a hand; and the more such a person does for the other woman’s children, the more she may do. But I should hope your mother was too proud to let herself be used as a nursemaid to her own nieces.” “She’s never proud where children are concerned,” answered Medora. “She’ll stop there till she’s worn out.” “A very gloomy picture and I hope you’re wrong, Mrs. Dingle,” he answered. CHAPTER X THE LETTER In the vat house there took place the transformation from liquid to solid, from pulp to paper, from a gruel-like, tenuous compound to a substance strong enough to stand strain of many pounds and last for centuries. Here was the largest building in the Mill—a very lofty, brightly lighted, airy hall, from whose open roof descended electric lights hanging above each vat. A steady whirr and throb of noisy engines made a din here, but the vatmen and their couchers were used to it and could hear themselves speak through the familiar riot.