man removed his hand from it now. Every
one waited with his grasp set, and his body
bent down to the work, ready to reverse
and wind in. At length the signal was given,
and all the ring leaned forward.

For, now, the rope came in, tightened and
strained to its utmost as it appeared, and the
men turned heavily, and the windlass
complained. It was scarcely endurable to look
at the rope, and think of its giving way. But
ring after ring was coiled upon the barrel of
the windlass safely, and the connecting chains
appeared, and finally the bucket with the two
men holding on at the sides—a sight to make
the head swim, and oppress the heart—and
tenderly supporting between them, slung and
tied within, the figure of a poor, crushed,
human creature.

A low murmur of pity went round the
throng, and the women wept aloud, as this
form, almost without form, was moved very
slowly from its iron deliverance, and laid
upon the bed of straw. At first none but the
surgeon went close to it. He did what he
could in its adjustment on the couch, but the
best that he could do was to cover it. That
gently done, he called to him Rachael and
Sissy. And at that time the pale, worn, patient
face was seen looking up at the sky, with the
broken right hand lying bare on the outside
of the covering garments, as if waiting to be
taken by another hand.

They gave him drink, moistened his face
with water, and administered some drops of
cordial and wine. Though he lay quite
motionless looking up at the sky, he smiled and
said, " Rachael."

She stooped down on the grass at his side,
and bent over him until her eyes were
between his and the sky, for he could not so
much as turn them to look at her.

"Rachael, my dear."

She took his hand. He smiled again and
said, " Don't let 't go."

"Thou'rt in great pain, my own dear
Stephen!"

"I ha' been, but not now. I ha' been—
dreadful, and dree, and long, my dear—but
'tis ower now. Ah Rachael, aw a muddle!
Fro' first to last, a muddle!"

The spectre of his old look seemed to pass
as he said the word.

"I ha' fell into th' pit, my dear, as have
cost wi'in the knowledge o' old fok now livin
hundreds and hundreds o' men's lives—
fathers, sons, brothers, dear to thousands an
thousands, an keepin 'em fro want and
hunger. I ha' fell into a pit that ha' been
wi' th' fire-damp crueller than battle. I ha'
read on't in the public petition, as onny one
may read, fro' the men that works in pits, in
which they ha' pray'n an pray'n the
lawmakers for Christ's sake not to let their
work be murder to 'em, but to spare 'em for
th' wives and children that they loves as well
as gentlefok loves theirs. When it were in
work, it killed wi'out need; when 'tis let
alone, it kills wi'out need. See how we die
an no need, one way an another—in a
muddle—every day!"

He faintly said it, without any anger
against any one. Merely as the truth.

"Thy little sister, Rachael, thou hast not
forgot her. Thou'rt not like to forget her now,
and me so nigh her. Thou know'st—poor,
patient, suff 'rin, dear—how thou did'st work
for her, seet'n all day long in her little chair
at thy winder, and she died, young and
mis-shapen, awlung o' sickly air as had'n no need
to be, an awlung o' working people's miserable
homes. A muddle! Aw a muddle!"

Louisa approached him; but he could not
see her, lying with his face turned up to the
night sky.

"If aw th' things that tooches us, my dear,
was not so muddled, I should'n ha' had'n
need to coom heer. If we was not in a
muddle among ourseln, I shouldn ha' been by
my own fellow weavers and workin brothers,
so mistook. If Mr. Bounderby had ever
knowd me right—if he'd ever know'd me
at aw—he would'n ha' took'n offence wi'
me. He would'n' ha' suspect'n' me. But
look up yonder, Rachael! Look aboove!"

Following his eyes, she saw that he was
gazing at a star.

"It ha' shined upon me," he said reverently,
"in my pain and trouble down below. It ha'
shined into my mind. I ha' lookn at 't an thowt
o' thee Rachael, till the muddle in my mind
have cleared awa, above a bit, I hope. If
soom ha' been wantin in unnerstanin me
better, I, too, ha' been wantin in unnerstanin
them better. When I got thy letter,
I easily believen that what the yoong lady sen
an done to me, an what her brother sen an
done to me was one, an that there were a
wicked plot betwixt 'em. When I fell, I
were in anger wi' her, an hurryin on t' be as
onjust t' her as others was t' me. But in our
judgments, like as in our doins, we mun
bear and forbear. In my pain an trouble
lookin up yonder,—wi' it shinin on me—I ha'
seen more clear, and ha' made it my dyin prayer
that aw th' world may on'y come toogether
more, an get a better unnerstanin o' one
another, than when I were in't my own weak seln."

Louisa hearing what he said, bent over him
on the opposite side to Rachael, so that he
could see her.

"You ha' heard? " he said after a few moments
silence. " I ha' not forgot yo, ledy."

"Yes, Stephen, I have heard you. And
your prayer is mine."

"You ha' a father. Will yo tak a message
to him?"

"He is here," said Louisa, with dread.
"Shall I bring him to you?"

"If yo please,"

Louisa returned with her father. Standing
hand-in-hand, they both looked down upon
the solemn countenance.

"Sir, yo will clear me an mak my name
good wi' aw men. This I leave to yo."