One of the lower overseers stopped.

“Korl, Sir.”

“Who did it?”

“Can’t say.  Some of the hands; chipped it out in off-hours.”

“Chipped to some purpose, I should say.  What a flesh-tint the stuff has!  Do you see, Mitchell?”

“I see.”

He had stepped aside where the light fell boldest on the figure, looking at it in silence.  There was not one line of beauty or grace in it:  a nude woman’s form, muscular, grown coarse with labor, the powerful limbs instinct with some one poignant longing.  One idea:  there it was in the tense, rigid muscles, the clutching hands, the wild, eager face, like that of a starving wolf’s.  Kirby and Doctor May walked around it, critical, curious.  Mitchell stood aloof, silent.  The figure touched him strangely.

“Not badly done,” said Doctor May.  “Where did the fellow learn that sweep of the muscles in the arm and hand?  Look at them!  They are groping,—­do you see?—­clutching:  the peculiar action of a man dying of thirst.”

“They have ample facilities for studying anatomy,” sneered Kirby, glancing at the half-naked figures.

“Look,” continued the Doctor, “at this bony wrist, and the strained sinews of the instep!  A working-woman,—­the very type of her class.”

“God forbid!” muttered Mitchell.

“Why?” demanded May.  “What does the fellow intend by the figure?  I cannot catch the meaning.”

“Ask him,” said the other, dryly.  “There he stands,”—­pointing to Wolfe, who stood with a group of men, leaning on his ash-rake.

The Doctor beckoned him with the affable smile which kind-hearted men put on, when talking to these people.

“Mr. Mitchell has picked you out as the man who did this,—­I’m sure I don’t know why.  But what did you mean by it?”

“She be hungry.”

Wolfe’s eyes answered Mitchell, not the Doctor.

“Oh-h!  But what a mistake you have made, my fine fellow!  You have given no sign of starvation to the body.  It is strong,—­terribly strong.  It has the mad, half-despairing gesture of drowning.”

Wolfe stammered, glanced appealingly at Mitchell, who saw the soul of the thing, he knew.  But the cool, probing eyes were turned on himself now,—­mocking, cruel, relentless.

“Not hungry for meat,” the furnace-tender said at last.

“What then?  Whiskey?” jeered Kirby, with a coarse laugh.

Wolfe was silent a moment, thinking.

“I dunno,” he said, with a bewildered look.  “It mebbe.  Summat to make her live, I think,—­like you.  Whiskey ull do it, in a way.”

The young man laughed again.  Mitchell flashed a look of disgust somewhere,—­not at Wolfe.

“May,” he broke out impatiently, “are you blind?  Look at that woman’s face!  It asks questions of God, and says, ‘I have a right to know.’  Good God, how hungry it is!”

They looked a moment; then May turned to the mill-owner:—­