"'It can't be otherwise,' says I, soothin', you know, 'so long's you've to sleep in the markets, an' so forth,' meanin' Hayes's stable. 'Now look o' here. My tailor, wishin' to help on the cause of science, as you say, wants to advance you a suit of clothes. On the engine. Of course, on the engine. You to pay when the thing's through. Congress or patents or what not. What d'ye say?' An' so"-- "He wears them. You told me that," said the Quaker, in a dry, mechanical tone. "You don't care to hear the ins an' outs of it? Well, there's one thing I'll mention," sulkily gathering up the reins; "to-morrow it'll be all up with the old chap, one way or t'other: him an' his engine's goin' on trial. Come up, Jerry!" jerking the horse's head; "ye ought to be in Broad Street this minute. An' if it's worsted he is, it'll be a case of manslaughter agin the judges. That old fellow's built his soul into them wheels an' pipes. An' his skin an' bone too, for that matter. There's little enough of 'em left, God knows! Come up, Jerry!" But Jane was leaning on the shafts again. Perhaps the story of the starving old machinist had touched her; even Andy guessed how big and childish the heart was in her woman's body, and how she always choked it down. She had taken out the basket now that held the old man's lunch, and was rearranging the slices of bread and ham, her fingers trembling, and lingering curiously over each. Her lips moved, but she said nothing. "Thy bread _is_ amazin' soft-crusted," said Mrs. Wart. "Thee scalds the raisin', don't thee, now?" "To-morrow, thee said, Andrew?" "Yes, that'll be the end of the engine, for good or bad. Ten years he's been at it, he says." "Ten years, last spring," to herself. She had put the basket down, and was stooping over the weeds. "Did I tell ye that? I forgot. Well, Mis' Wart, we'll be off. Don't fret, it's not late. Jerry's blooded. He'll not let the grass grow under his feet." And the milk-wagon, with its yellow letters, went trundling down the road, the sun beginning to shine pleasantly in on the cool tin vessels within, and the crisp red curls and blue eyes of the driver,--on the lantern, too, swinging from the roof inside, as Andy glanced back. He chuckled; even Mrs. Wart looked tidy and clean in the morning air; his lunch smelt savory in the basket. Then suddenly recalling the old machinist, and the history in which he was himself part actor, he abruptly altered his expression, drawing down his red eyebrows to a tragic scowl, and glaring out into the pleasant light as one who insults fate. "Whatever is thee glowerin' thataway about?" snapped his companion. Andy took out his handkerchief, and wiped his forehead deliberately. "Men see passages in human life that women suspect nothing about, Mem. Darn this wagon, how it jolts! There's lots of genius trampled underfoot by yer purse-proud tyrants, Mem." "Theeself, for instance. Thee'd best mind thy horse, boy."