Then flashed before his vivid poetic sense the man who had left him,—­the pure face, the delicate, sinewy limbs, in harmony with all he knew of beauty or truth.  In his cloudy fancy he had pictured a Something like this.  He had found it in this Mitchell, even when he idly scoffed at his pain:  a Man all-knowing, all-seeing, crowned by Nature, reigning,—­the keen glance of his eye falling like a sceptre on other men.  And yet his instinct taught him that he too—­He!  He looked at himself with sudden loathing, sick, wrung his hands with a cry, and then was silent.  With all the phantoms of his heated, ignorant fancy, Wolfe had not been vague in his ambitious.  They were practical, slowly built up before him out of his knowledge of what he could do.  Through years he had day by day made this hope a real thing to himself,—­a clear, projected figure of himself, as he might become.

Able to speak, to know what was best, to raise these men and women working at his side up with him:  sometimes he forgot this defined hope in the frantic anguish to escape,—­only to escape,—­out of the wet, the pain, the ashes, somewhere, anywhere,—­only for one moment of free air on a hill-side, to lie down and let his sick soul throb itself out in the sunshine.  But to-night he panted for life.  The savage strength of his nature was roused; his cry was fierce to God for justice.

“Look at me!” he said to Deborah, with a low, bitter laugh, striking his puny chest savagely.  “What am I worth, Deb?  Is it my fault that I am no better?  My fault?  My fault?”

He stopped, stung with a sudden remorse, seeing her hunchback shape writhing with sobs.  For Deborah was crying thankless tears, according to the fashion of women.

“God forgi’ me, woman!  Things go harder wi’ you nor me.  It’s a worse share.”

He got up and helped her to rise; and they went doggedly down the muddy street, side by side.

“It’s all wrong,” he muttered, slowly,—­“all wrong!  I dunnot understan’.  But it’ll end some day.”

“Come home, Hugh!” she said, coaxingly; for he had stopped, looking around bewildered.

“Home,—­and back to the mill!” He went on saying this over to himself, as if he would mutter down every pain in this dull despair.

She followed him through the fog, her blue lips chattering with cold.  They reached the cellar at last.  Old Wolfe had been drinking since she went out, and had crept nearer the door.  The girl Janey slept heavily In the corner.  He went up to her, touching softly the worn white arm with his fingers.  Some bitterer thought stung him, as he stood there.  He wiped the drops from his forehead, and went into the room beyond, livid, trembling.  A hope, trifling, perhaps, but very dear, had died just then out of the poor puddler’s life, as he looked at the sleeping, innocent girl,—­some plan for the future, in which she had borne a part.  He gave it up that moment, then and forever.  Only a trifle, perhaps, to us:  his face grew a shade paler,—­that was all.  But, somehow, the man’s soul, as God and the angels looked down on it, never was the same afterwards.