And in truth it must have taken courage, for there was something in old Josiah’s forbidding brow and solitary mien which would have chilled the purpose of any child.  It may have been this which suddenly brought the tears to Mary’s eyes, or it may have been that her womanly little breast guessed the loneliness in her father’s heart.  Whatever it was, she unsteadily crossed the room, her sight blurred but her plan as steadfast as ever, and a moment later she was climbing on Josiah’s knee, her arms tight around his neck, sobbing as though it would shake her little frame to pieces.

What passed between those two, partly in speech but chiefly in silence with their wet cheeks pressed together, I need not tell you; but when Ma’m Maynard came searching for her charge and stood quite open-mouthed in the doorway, Josiah waved her away, his finger on his lip, and later he carried Mary upstairs himself—­and went back to his study without a word, though blowing his nose in a key which wasn’t without significance.

And nearly every night after that, when dinner was over, Mary made a visit to old Josiah’s study downstairs; and one Saturday morning when he was leaving for the factory, he heard the front door open and shut behind him and there stood Mary, her little straw bonnet held under her chin with an elastic.  In the most matter of fact way she slipped her fingers into his hand.  He hesitated, but woman-like she pulled him on.  The next minute they were walking down the drive together.

As they passed the end of the house, he remembered the words which he had once used to his sisters, “After seven generations you simply can’t keep them away.  It’s bred in the bone.”

A thrill ran over him as he looked at the little figure by his side.

“If she had only been a boy!” he breathed.

At the end of the drive he stopped.

“You must go back now, dear.”

“No,” said Mary and tried to pull him on.

For as long as it might take you to count five, Josiah stood there irresolute, Mary’s fingers pulling him one way and the memory of poor Martha’s fate pulling him the other.

“And yet,” he thought, “she’s bound to see it sometime.  Perhaps better now—­before she understands—­than later—­”

He lifted her and sat her on his arm.

“Now, listen, little woman,” he said as they gravely regarded each other.  “This is important.  If I take you this morning, will you promise to be a good girl, and sit in the office, and not go wandering off by yourself?  Will you promise me that?”

This, too, may have been heredity, going back as far as Eve:  Still gravely regarding him she nodded her head in silence and promised him with a kiss.  He set her down, her hand automatically slipping into his palm again, and together they walked to the factory.

The road made a sharp descent to the interval by the side of the river, almost affording a bird’s-eye view of the buildings below—­lines of workshops of an incredible length, their ventilators like the helmets of an army of giants.