“Do I not quote correctly? I think I remember another line, which may amend my meaning? 'Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these, ye did it unto me.' Deist? Bless you, man, I was raised on the milk of the Word. Now, Doctor, the pocket of the world having uttered its voice, what has the heart to say? You are a philanthropist, in a small Way,--n'est ce pas? Here, boy, this gentleman can show you how to cut korl better,--or your destiny. Go on, May!” “I think a mocking devil possesses you to-night,” rejoined the Doctor, seriously. He went to Wolfe and put his hand kindly on his arm. Something of a vague idea possessed the Doctor's brain that much good was to be done here by a friendly word or two: a latent genius to be warmed into life by a waited-for sunbeam. Here it was: he had brought it. So he went on complacently: “Do you know, boy, you have it in you to be a great sculptor, a great man? do you understand?” (talking down to the capacity of his hearer: it is a way people have with children, and men like Wolfe,)--“to live a better, stronger life than I, or Mr. Kirby here? A man may make himself anything he chooses. God has given you stronger powers than many men,--me, for instance.” May stopped, heated, glowing with his own magnanimity. And it was magnanimous. The puddler had drunk in every word, looking through the Doctor's flurry, and generous heat, and self-approval, into his will, with those slow, absorbing eyes of his. “Make yourself what you will. It is your right. “I know,” quietly. “Will you help me?” Mitchell laughed again. The Doctor turned now, in a passion,-- “You know, Mitchell, I have not the means. You know, if I had, it is in my heart to take this boy and educate him for”-- “The glory of God, and the glory of John May.” May did not speak for a moment; then, controlled, he said,-- “Why should one be raised, when myriads are left?--I have not the money, boy,” to Wolfe, shortly. “Money?” He said it over slowly, as one repeats the guessed answer to a riddle, doubtfully. “That is it? Money?” “Yes, money,--that is it,” said Mitchell, rising, and drawing his furred coat about him. “You've found the cure for all the world's diseases.--Come, May, find your good-humor, and come home. This damp wind chills my very bones. Come and preach your Saint-Simonian doctrines' to-morrow to Kirby's hands. Let them have a clear idea of the rights of the soul, and I'll venture next week they'll strike for higher wages. That will be the end of it.” “Will you send the coach-driver to this side of the mills?” asked Kirby, turning to Wolfe. He spoke kindly: it was his habit to do so. Deborah, seeing the puddler go, crept after him. The three men waited outside. Doctor May walked up and down, chafed. Suddenly he stopped. “Go back, Mitchell! You say the pocket and the heart of the world speak without meaning to these people. What has its head to say? Taste, culture, refinement? Go!”