intellect stumbling through wrong, a loving poet’s heart, the man was by habit only a coarse, vulgar laborer, familiar with sights and words you would blush to name.  Be just; when I tell you about this night, see him as he is.  Be just,—­not like man’s law, which seizes on one isolated fact, but like God’s judging angel, whose clear, sad eye saw all the countless cankering days of this man’s life, all the countless nights, when, sick with starving, his soul fainted in him, before it judged him for this night, the saddest of all.

I called this night the crisis of his life.  If it was, it stole on him unawares.  These great turning-days of life cast no shadow before, slip by unconsciously.  Only a trifle, a little turn of the rudder, and the ship goes to heaven or hell.

Wolfe, while Deborah watched him, dug into the furnace of melting iron with his pole, dully thinking only how many rails the lump would yield.  It was late,—­nearly Sunday morning; another hour, and the heavy work would be done,—­only the furnaces to replenish and cover for the next day.  The workmen were growing more noisy, shouting, as they had to do, to be heard over the deep clamor of the mills.  Suddenly they grew less boisterous,—­at the far end, entirely silent.  Something unusual had happened.  After a moment, the silence came nearer; the men stopped their jeers and drunken choruses.  Deborah, stupidly lifting up her head, saw the cause of the quiet.  A group of five or six men were slowly approaching, stopping to examine each furnace as they came.  Visitors often came to see the mills after night:  except by growing less noisy, the men took no notice of them.  The furnace where Wolfe worked was near the bounds of the works; they halted there hot and tired:  a walk over one of these great foundries is no trifling task.  The woman, drawing out of sight, turned over to sleep.  Wolfe, seeing them stop, suddenly roused from his indifferent stupor, and watched them keenly.  He knew some of them:  the overseer, Clarke,—­a son of Kirby, one of the mill-owners,—­and a Doctor May, one of the town-physicians.  The other two were strangers.  Wolfe came closer.  He seized eagerly every chance that brought him into contact with this mysterious class that shone down on him perpetually with the glamour of another order of being.  What made the difference between them?  That was the mystery of his life.  He had a vague notion that perhaps to-night he could find it out.  One of the strangers sat down on a pile of bricks, and beckoned young Kirby to his side.

“This is hot, with a vengeance.  A match, please?”—­lighting his cigar.  “But the walk is worth the trouble.  If it were not that you must have heard it so often, Kirby, I would tell you that your works look like Dante’s Inferno.”

Kirby laughed.

“Yes.  Yonder is Farinata himself in the burning tomb,”—­pointing to some figure in the shimmering shadows.

“Judging from some of the faces of your men,” said the other, “they bid fair to try the reality of Dante’s vision, some day.”