And in the Beast's body was a heart!
Ay, and the man was a man—a trained gladiator—and he was nerved by the cheers of thousands of sympathizing spectators.
And now, centuries after, and in the age of so-called kindness, comes this battle to be fought over. And the fight, now as then, is for bread and life.
But how cruelly unfair is the fight of to-day, when the weak and helpless child is made the gladiator, and the fight is for bread, and the Beast is of steel and steam, and is soulless and heartless. Steel—that by which the old gladiator conquered—that is the heart of the Thing the little one must fight. And the cheers—the glamour of it is lacking, for the little one cannot hear even the sound of its own voice—in the roar of the thousand-throated Thing which drives the Steel Beast on.
Seven o'clock—eight o'clock—Shiloh's head swam—her shoulders ached, her ears quivered with sensitiveness, and seemed not to catch sounds any more, but sharp and shooting pains. She was dazed already and weak; but still the Steam Thing cheered its steel legions on.
Up and down, up and down she walked, her baby thoughts coming to her as through the roar of a Niagara, through pain and sensitiveness, through aches and a dull, never-ending sameness.
Nine o'clock! Oh, she was so tired of it all!
Hark, she thought she heard a bird sing in a far off, dreamy way, and for a moment she made mud pies in the back yard of the hut on the mountain, under the black-oak in the yard, with the glint of soft sunshine over everything and the murmur of green leaves in the trees above, as the wind from off the mountain went through them, and the anemone, and bellworts, and daisies grew beneath and around. Was it a bluebird? She had never seen but one and it had built its nest in a hole in a hollow tree, the summer before she went into the mill to work.
She listened again—yes, it did sound something like a bluebird, peeping in a distant far off way, such as she had heard in the cabin on the mountain before she had ever heard the voice of the Big Thing at the mill. She listened, and a wave of disappointment swept over her baby face; for, listening closely, she found it was an unoiled separator, that peeped in a bluebird way now and then, above the staccato of some rusty spindle.
But in the song of that bluebird and the glory of an imaginary mud pie, all the disappointment of what she had missed swept over her.