dingy basements, and had done all kinds of hard labor for other men. They had given their lives and strength for others, and this was the end of it—to die poor and forsaken. I looked at them, and they reminded me of the martyrs of old. Ground down, living from hand to mouth, separated from their families in many cases—they had had a bitter lot. They had never had a ohance to get away from their fate, and had to work till they dropped. I tell you there is something wrong. We don't do enough for the people that slave and toil for us. We should take better care of them, we should not herd them together like cattle, and when we get rich, we should carry them along with us, and give them a part of our gains, for without them we would be as poor as they are."
"Good, Harry—I'm with you there," said a voice behind him, and looking round, we saw Mr. Wood standing in the doorway, gazing down proudly at his stepson.
Mr. Harry smiled, and getting up, said, "Won't you have my chair, sir?"
"No, thank you, your mother wishes us to come to tea. There are muffins, and you know they won't improve with keeping."
They all went to the dining room, and I followed them. On the way, Mr. Wood said, "Right on top of that talk of yours, Harry, I've got to tell you of another person who is going to Boston to live."
"Who is it?" said Mr. Harry.
"Lazy Dan Wilson. I've been to see him this afternoon. You know his wife is sick, and they're half starved. He says he is going to the city, for he hates to chop wood and work, and he thinks maybe he'll get some light job there."
