"'Are you deaf, you little vermin?' roared Sir Matthew. 'Now she's down again. Do what I bid you, or, by the living God, you shall smart for it!' "Still Michael did not stir, neither did he speak; or if he did, his young voice was wholly inaudible, and the anger of Sir Matthew was demonstrated by a clenched fist and threatening brow. 'Where the devil is Parsons?' he demanded, in accents that poor Michael both heard and understood. 'Fine as he is, the strap will do him good.' "In saying this, the great man turned to reconnoitre the space he had traversed, and by which his confidential servant must approach, and found that he was already within a good yard of him. "'That's good—I want you, Parsons. Do you see this little rebel here, that I have dressed and treated like one of my own children? What d'ye think of his refusing to kiss Miss No. 3, scavenger, when I bid him?' "'The devil he does?' said the manager, grinning: 'we must see if we can't mend that. Mind your hits, Master Piecer, and salute the young lady when the mules go back, like a gentleman.' "Sir Matthew perceived that his favourite agent feared to enforce his first brutal command, and was forced, therefore, to content himself with seeing the oiled and grimy face of the filthy little girl in contact with that of the now clean and delicate-looking Michael. But he felt he had been foiled, and cast a glance upon his _protégé_, which seemed to promise that he would not forget it." Nor is the delineation, in the following verses, by Francis M. Blake, less truthful and touching:— THE FACTORY CHILD. Early one winter's morning, The weather wet and wild, Some hours before the dawning, A father call'd his child; Her daily morsel bringing, The darksome room he paced, And cried, "The bell is ringing— My hapless darling, haste." "Father, I'm up, but weary, I scarce can reach the door, And long the way and dreary— Oh, carry me once more! To help us we've no mother, To live how hard we try— They kill'd my little brother— Like him I'll work and die!" His feeble arms they bore her, The storm was loud and wild— God of the poor man, hear him! He prays, "Oh, save my child!" Her wasted form seem'd nothing— The load was in his heart; The sufferer he kept soothing, Till at the mill they part. The overlooker met her, As to the frame she crept, And with the thong he beat her, And cursed her as she wept. Alas! what hours of horror Made up her latest day! In toil, and pain, and sorrow, They slowly pass'd away.