"Don't be precipitate. I don't mean to offend you. Your husband ought to give the mill hands a share in his profits."
"They are well paid, Miss Gastonguay."
"Well paid? Would you like to change places with them?"
"Certainly not."
"Then you're stealing from them. You are bound to look out for them. Your husband needn't give them as much as he takes himself, for he supplies the brains and they only the labour, but for charity's sake, Dorinda Potts, go and visit some of these cottages where children are pale and puny from lack of the necessities of life."
Miss Gastonguay turned away to another caller, and Mrs. Jonah went uneasily home.
Jane Gastonguay was haggard, almost broken down, and with what unusual softness had she spoken of the mill hands. The tiny seed of compassion stirred restlessly in the untilled ground of Mrs. Jonah's heart. Some day it would grow into a large and generous plant, and would extend its healing leaves over some unhappy mortals scorched and tortured for lack of a comforting shade.
The young burglar, in the meantime, sat reading a novel in a parlour-car, his foot comfortably extended on a cushion, his ears tingling not at all as he became more and more of a topic of conversation in Rossignol.
Prosperity and Tribulation, frightened into silence by Miss Gastonguay, said nothing of the manner of his going; and while the astute police of the town scoured the country to find some footprints of a limping burglar, the black thoroughbred cantered gaily homewards with hanging bridle, and whinnied joyfully as the coachman greeted him with a peculiar smile.
Justin arrived early in the morning, and took his wife home. He was considerably alarmed when he heard of the risk she had run in attacking two full-fledged burglars; but so full of glee was she over his return, Miss Gastonguay's safety, and the escape of the burglars that he could do nothing with her in the way of extorting a promise for more cautious behaviour in future.