“Of course, the puppy works,” responded Morton; “that is, if you're to call pottering at a desk by such a respectable term. As for his habits, they are the habits of a captive. He's prisoner to his poverty. Gad! one can't be so deucedly pernicious, don't y' know, on nine hundred a year.” Then, with a burst of eagerness: “I know what you would be thinking. But I say, old chap, you mustn't bank on his blood. Good on both sides, it may be; but the blend is bad. Two very reputable drugs may be combined to make a poison, don't y' know!” There the matter stuck; for I would not tell Morton of any feeling my girl might have for young Van Flange. However, Morton's view in no wise changed my own; I considered that with the best of motives he might still suffer from some warping prejudice. There arose a consideration, however, and one I could not look in the face. There was that dread birthmark!--the mark of the rope! At last I brought up the topic of my fears with Anne. “Will he not loathe her?” said I. “Will his love not change to hate when he knows?” “Did your love change?” Anne asked. “But that is not the same.” “Be at peace, then,” returned Anne, taking my hand in hers and pressing it. “I have told him. Nor shall I forget the nobleness of his reply: 'I love Blossom,' said he; 'I love her for her heart.'” When I remember these things, I cannot account for the infatuation of us two--Anne and myself. The blackest villain of earth imposed himself upon us as a saint! And I had had my warning. I should have known that he who broke a mother's heart would break a wife's. Now when the forces of reform governed the town, affairs went badly for that superlative tribe, and each day offered additional claim for the return of the machine. Government is not meant to be a shepherd of morals. Its primal purposes are of the physical, being no more than to safeguard property and person. That is the theory; more strongly still must it become the practice if one would avoid the enmity of men. He whose morals are looked after by the powers that rule, grows impatient, and in the end, vindictive. No mouth likes the bit; a guardian is never loved. The reform folk made that error against which Old Mike warned Big Kennedy: They got between the public and its beer. The situation, thus phrased, called for neither intrigue nor labor on my own part. I had but to stay in my chair, and “reform” itself would drive the people into Tammany's arms. In those days I had but scanty glimpses of the Reverend Bronson. However, he now and then would visit me, and when he did, I think I read in his troubled brow the fear of machine success next time. Morton was there on one occasion when the Reverend Bronson came in. They were well known to one another, these two; also, they were friends as much as men might be whose lives and aims went wide apart.