Throughout the past three years of trouble John had been the Greatheart of his people, and they loved and trusted him.  They knew that he had mortgaged or sold all his estate in order to buy cotton and keep them at work.  They knew that all other factories in the neighborhood had long been closed and that for the last four months Hatton had been running only half-time, and alas!  John knew that his cotton was nearly gone and that peace appeared to be as far off as ever.

“You see, sir,” said Greenwood, in a half-admiring and half-apologizing way, “both North and South are mostly of good English breed and they don’t know when they are whipped.”

One afternoon Mrs. Stephen Hatton called at the mill to see John.  It was such a strange thing for her to do that he was almost frightened when he heard of it.  Strengthening his heart for anything, he went to his private room to meet her, and his anxiety was so evident that she said immediately in her cheerful comforting way,

“Nay, nay, my lad, there is nothing extra for thee to worry about.  I only want thee to look after something in a hurry—­it must be in a hurry, or I would not have come for thee.”

“I know, mother.  What is it?”

“They have brought thirty-four little children from Metwold here, and they are in a state of starvation.  I want thee to see about getting mattresses and blankets into the spinners’ lecture room.  I have looked after food for them.”

“Have you anything to spare for this purpose, mother?”

“No, I hev not, John.  The town hes plenty.  They will do whatever thou tells them to do.”

“Very well, mother.  I will go at once.”

“I hev been in the village all day.  I hev seen that every poor nursing woman hes hed some soup and tea and that these thirty-four little ones were well and properly fed.  Now I am going home to save every drop of milk I can spare for them.”

“Is it fair for Metwold to send her starving children here?”

“If thou could see them, John, thou would never ask that question.  Some of them are under three years old.  They are only skin and bone, they are as white as if they were dead—­helpless, enfeebled, crippled, and, John, three of them are stone blind from starvation!”

“O my God!” cried John, in an acute passion of pity and entreaty.

“Every sign of severe and speechless misery is on their small, shrunken faces and that dreadful, searching look that shows the desperate hunger of a little child.  John, I cried over every one of them.  Where was the pitiful Christ?  Why did He not comfort them?”

“Mother!  Mother!  Tell me no more.  I can not bear it.  Who brought them here?”

“The town officer.  They were laid on straw in big wagons.  It was a hard journey.”

“Where are their mothers?”

“Dead or dying.”

“I will see they have beds and blankets.  Do you want money, mother, for this service?”