Shiloh was awakened by a dash of cold water and a rough kick from the big boot of that other beast who called himself the overseer. He did not intend to jostle her hard, but Shiloh was such a little thing that the kick she got in the side accompanied by the dash of water shocked and frightened her instantly to her feet, and with scared eyes and blanched face she darted down to the long line of bobbins, mending the threads.
If, in the great Mystic Unknown,—the Eden of Balance,—there lies no retributive Cause to right the injustice of that cruel Effect, let us hope there is no Here-after; that we all die and rot like dogs, who know no justice; that what little kindness and sweetness and right, man, through his happier dreams, his hopeful, cheerful idealism, has tried to establish in the world, may no longer stand as mockery to the Sweet Philosopher who long ago said: “Suffer the little children to come unto me.” ...
They were more dead than alive when, at seven o'clock, the Steam Beast uttered the last volcanic howl which said they might go home.
Outside the stars were shining and the cool night air struck into them with a suddenness which made them shiver. They were children, and so they were thoughtless and did not know the risk they ran by coming out of a warm mill, hot and exhausted, into the cool air of an Autumn night. Shiloh was so tired and sleepy that Bull Run and Seven Days had to carry her between them.
Everybody passed out of the mill—a speechless, haggard, over-worked procession. Byrd Boyle, with a face and form which seemed to belong to a slave age, carried his twins in his arms.
Their heads lay on his shoulders. They were asleep.
Scarcely had the children eaten their supper of biscuit and bacon, augmented with dandelion salad, ere they, too, were asleep—all but Shiloh.
She could not sleep—now that she wanted to—and she lay in her grandfather's lap with flushed face and hot, over-worked heart. The strain was beginning to tell, and the old man grew uneasy, as he watched the flush on her cheeks and the unusual brightness in her eyes.
“Better give her five draps of tub'bentine an' put her to bed,” said Mrs. Watts as she came by. “She'll be fittin' an' good by mornin'.”
The old man did not reply—he only sang a low melody and smoothed her forehead.