SYBIL LEITH stopped on the old bridge, and leaned over the low railing, seemingly to watch the ripple of the waters, but with a look in her eyes which told you she saw far different things than the shimmering play of light and shade upon the surface of the stream, whose busy hands, a little farther down, kept the factory wheels turning as steadily and relentlessly as the wheels of fate. She saw, as one sees things in a dream, the minnows darting about in that restless fashion of theirs, and they made her think of the shuttles, flying through and through the work in the weaving-rooms at the factory, whose jar and rumble came like a discord to her, even now. She wondered, in a listless fashion, if any one could shut out those sounds, after having worked among them. She believed not. They became part of their lives, henceforth. How she wished she could forget the factory, and everything connected with it, for awhile. She could rest then, perhaps. But she had watched the shuttles moving to and fro so long that they kept flying through the air before her, when she shut her eyes at night; and she had listened so long to the crash and thunder of the restless wheels, that she heard them everywhere. The sound of them was caught fast in her ears, and would stay there forever.

      As she stood there, thinking, in a spiritless kind of way, of what a pleasant thing life must be where there is no such monotony of drudging in it, as had wrapped hers in from childhood, like a wall she could not pass, and over which no pleasant thing from the outside world could ever come to her, a step upon the creaking planks aroused her.

      She turned slowly, as a person twice her age might have done, with a little color flickering on her sallow cheek, a little light making her discouraged eyes brighten for a moment.

      "Good-morning, Dick," she said, putting out her hand.

      Dick's face was aglow at sight of her. To him she was the one woman in the world.

      "Good-morning, Sybil," he said, cheerily. "You're taking a breath of fresh air, are you? Wouldn't it be glorious to live out of doors all the time, these scorching days? It'll be like a furnace, in the factory to-day, I'm thinking."

      "I wonder if a person never gets out, who once gets into the mills?" she asked. "I think not. It's for life or death, I don't know which. I wouldn't care much, if it wasn't for Lois."

      "I don't like to hear you talk in that way," Dick said, in his grave, slow way. "There's no need of your killing yourself at the loom as you're doing. It's only for you to say yes, Sybil, and you're done with it, forever. You know there's nothing I'd be gladder to hear."

      She turned away from him almost angrily. The thought of what might be, but which she made herself believe ought not to be, stung her sharply, and found expression in her face and words.

      "Don't!" she said, with a little gesture of impatience. "What's the use of bringing that all up again?"

      "But if you only knew how I'd set my heart on it, Sybil," Dick said, gravely. "If you only knew how I'd hoped and planned —"

      "I do know," she said, a little more tenderly, but with much bitterness in her voice yet. "I understand it all, Dick, but — there's Lois. It wouldn't be right for me to marry you, and put such a burden on you as that. You'd find your hands full with me, like enough — and then to think of her — helpless as a baby. That's too much. It wouldn't be right for me to say yes, Dick, taking everything into consideration. I've thought it all over a hundred times, since — since you told me, and I always make up my mind to that."

      "Didn't I know all about Lois when I asked you to marry me?" asked Dick. "If I hadn't been willing to work for both of you, d'ye s'pose I'd have asked you any such question? You know better, Sybil. I understand the case completely, and I ain't afraid to run the risk. My shoulders are broad enough to bear half-a-dozen such loads as you and Lois would be. Lois wouldn't be much more to take care of than that sparrow, there, when you come to think it over, to a man like me, with two stout hands. And I'd work a great deal harder, and do it easier, if I thought I'd some one to work for that loved me, and a home of my own. A home, Sybil, think of that! Don't you know how that would put energy into me? If I knew that you were waiting for me, after day's work was done, why, the hardest job would seem like play, I do believe. The thought of the kiss you'd give me, when I got home, would help me more than the promise of a better place or extra wages."

      Clang Clang Clang!

      The sound of the factory bell seemed to be always tangled in her life. It was always breaking in upon her dreaming, rousing her to the reality of what was before her.

      "There's the bell, Dick," she said, with a long sigh, turning her face factory-ward. "No, Dick, I don't think I'd better say yes. It wouldn't be right."

      "I don't want you to decide without taking plenty of time to think it all over," Dick said, with a sound of disappointment in his voice, as he walked by her side, through the straggling street leading toward the factory. "You haven't any right to let the thought of Lois keep you from saying yes, if you love me, Sybil. That's what you ought to think of, in making up your mind — that and nothing else. If you love me — and I believe you do, Sybil — I've seen it in your eyes more than once — you haven't any right to say no. Anyway, it looks that way to me."

      Clang! clang! went the bell again, sending its brazen thunder across the sky, which seemed to shut down so low about the factory as to give Sybil a sense of suffocation.

      "I don't believe I love anybody," she cried, almost fiercely. "If it wasn't for Lois, I'd like to be dead, I think."

      Dick looked at her with a kind of dull wonder in his eyes.

      "Poor girl," he said, presently. "I think I understand, Sybil, if you don't. This life is wearing you out. It's killing you, and there's no reason why it should. All you have to do to get rid of it, forever, is to say the word, Sybil."

      "Yes, I know," she said, wearily. "But — I don't think I shall ever say it, Dick. I'm not going to have you, or anyone else, think that I married you for the sake of getting rid of the factory."

      They were at the factory door now, and went in together. The wheels were turning round and round in their tireless way. The warp was waiting for her, at her loom. It made her think of a spider's web. Somehow, her life had got caught in it, and she could not break its meshes. The grim, old factory looked more like a great spider than ever before.

      She hung up her hat, and turned to her loom. She took up her shuttles mechanically, and set them in their grooves, and started the machinery.

      Clack! clack! clack! Every sound pierced her throbbing brain, like a knife. She was faint already. The great room was like a furnace, reeking with steam. It was such a long, long time till night. And the summer had only just begun. It was such a long, long time to the end of it!

      But she could not stop to think. She was nothing but a factory "hand" — a part of the machinery of the place — and she had no right to think. It was her business to work. She thought of Lois — poor, crippled; patient Lois — and the new dress she had planned to buy her, and fought back the faintness, which crept over her now and then. She mustn't allow herself to get sick. Being only a factory hand, with bread to earn for two, she couldn't afford the luxury of sickness.

      By and by, the bell rang out for noon. She took her slice of dry bread and bit of meat from her pocket, and sat down by the window, where she could look at the water, to eat her apology for a dinner.

      "It's good enough," she thought, bitterly, as she munched the dry crust. "I s'pose I ought to be thankful for it. It's a good thing that there isn't any butter on it. If there was, I should be dissatisfied with other things in life, as dry as this bread is, and want to spread them over with something, to make them more palatable."

      She laughed a little, low, hard laugh, at her dreary moralizing. A step at her side caused her to look up. She saw Mr. Leverson standing there, regarding her intently. He was her employer. The great factory, and the men and women in it, were his.

      "You look tired out," he said, in his low, even voice. "You ought to rest."

      "What is that?" Sybil asked the question, almost sharply.

      "Pardon me," he said, understanding her. "I presume what I said sounded like an impertinence to you. Will you stop at my house, on your way home, to-night? I have something to say to you, that cannot be said here."

      "Yes, I'll stop," Sybil said. He had some instructions to give her, probably. She didn't see why he couldn't give them to her in the office, as well. But she would stop, of course. He was her employer, and it was her business to do as he said.

      He came and stood by her loom, that afternoon, and watched her deft, well-trained fingers at work among the threads. Sybil wondered if he didn't consider her a part of the iron-brained machine, which seemed to keep up a steady thinking of one thing, from one day's end to another?. Once or twice, when she looked up, she caught him watching her in such a strangely earnest way, that her face flushed a little, with something more than the heat of the room. Several times, of late, he had come, to stand by her loom, and watch her at work. She wondered why. It bothered her to have his eyes upon her, and she gave a little twitch of impatience to the threads she was trying to untangle, and they broke into fragments in her hands. Then he went away, and she breathed freer.

      How cool and pleasant the path was, from the street to the house, that night, when she stopped for her employer's "instructions." The early roses were brimming over with sweetness. The grass was like velvet. A little fountain in the yard played softly, and there was a sound of rest and dreams in the plash of its waters. The trees reached out their great arms to her, as if inviting her to hide away among them, and forget. She thought of Lois, waiting at home alone; and, with an involuntary sigh, she turned from the contemplation of the things about her, and went up the steps of Mr. Leverson's stately home.

      "He isn't in, just now," the servant said. "But he told me to tell you to wait, till he came. He'll be back soon."

      Sybil went into the parlor, and sat down. The easy chair drew her into its embrace, like a friend who takes you in his arms, to rest you, and comfort you. She looked about her. The floor was covered with a carpet that was like a bit of the mossy woods. The walls were hung with pictures that were like windows, through which she looked, and saw the world she had dreamed of, in a beauty tenfold greater than it had ever borne in her dreams. Vines clambered over the windows, and about the white statues in the nooks and corners. Books were all about her. A piano stood open at one end of the room. She went up to it, and touched a key. A low, sweet syllable of music trembled through the apartment. It was so sweet, that it drowned the crash and roar of the tireless wheels for one moment. But only for one.

      Oh, to live in this way! To have nothing to do but rest — and live! She felt, in a vague way, how dwarfed her poor, mean way of living was. It seemed like sarcasm to call it living. It was existence, merely, nothing more.

      "I wish this were all mine — mine and Lois'," she said, under her breath. Then she thought of Dick.

      She heard a step on the threshold. She looked up, and saw Mr. Leverson standing there, watching her. She grew strangely uncomfortable under his earnest eyes.

      "I have something to say to you," he said, coming nearer. "I suppose you will be surprised at it. It will be unexpected. You must not consider it as being said, on the impulse of the moment, however. I am not the kind of man to do things in that way. I have pondered the matter well, and what I shall say to you, is the result of deliberate thought. I suppose you have never thought of my caring for you, but I do. I have watched your face for a long time, and I have grown fond of it. Will you be my wife?"

      Mr. Leverson was a gentleman, and she knew he meant what he said. It came to her in a swift flash, and she felt the truth in a dazed and muddled way. She looked about her, and saw the beautiful things which would be her's if she accepted Mr. Leverson's proposal. She felt as if she stood at the gate of Paradise, and some one asked her to come in. She had wished this beauty could be hers. It was to be had for the taking. A word, and the hateful factory-life was ended forever. She could rest, rest! And Lois! The poor, crippled limbs might even be made straight. Who knew? Then she thought of Dick, and her heart gave a little thrill, that was like a reaching out of hands to him. And yet he was so poor — so miserably poor! He had only his hands, she thought, swiftly. Then something seemed to cry out to her, reproachfully, that he had more — infinitely more, than she could make herself believe this man had — a great, honest heart, brimful of love for her.

      A confused vision of pictures and flowers, of rich dresses and flashing jewels, and the sound of music went surging through and through her brain, to the accompaniment of the grinding, pitiless wheels.

      "I can't think, now!" she cried, putting her hands to her throbbing temples. "Let me go — some other time, maybe —" and then she actually laughed. But she did not know what she was doing. She was only conscious of a great longing to get away from the man who had offered her his hand. She began to feel afraid of him.

      "You are killing yourself in the factory," he said, tenderly. "The work is too hard. Let me take you away from it. I do not ask you to decide now. Take your own time for that. But I hope it will be favorably."

      Presently, she found herself in the street, alone. Was she dreaming? Had Ralph Leverson really asked her to be his wife, or had the fever smitten her with its mighty, merciless hand, and was this the delirium it generally brought?

      She got home, to Lois, at last. She went about the little, mean room, getting their frugal supper in a silent, mechanical way, with such a tense, strained look in her face, that Lois was afraid of her. When the table was cleared away, she sat down by the window, and made Lois sit down at her feet, with her head in her lap.

      "Don't talk to me," she said. "I've got to think." And there she sat, thinking, thinking, thinking, till late into the night. Her thoughts were tireless as the wheels. She was powerless to stop them. They went on with no volition of hers.

      She went back to her loom, next day, with the wheels of thought still turning. Should she choose this one, or that one? On the one hand, rest, and all the beautiful things wealth could buy. On the other, a humble home, and the wealth of a loving heart. Dear, patient, willing Dick! How mean and selfish she seemed to herself, for hesitating in making her decision, between the man she loved, and who loved her, and the man who loved her, but whom she did not love. For she knew she did not, and never could, love Leverson. But — always coming round in the same circle, to this one thought — his wealth — and wealth could buy so much! But could it buy enough to offset love? She wished she knew that. What a hard, hard problem she was trying to solve.

      How the machinery crashed its iron jaws! She fancied it was a great animal, snarling at her, and trying to get hold of her; and the fancy was so real, that once or twice she put out her hands, as though to beat it back, and cried out sharply, in her fright.

      "I'm going home," she said, at last, sick, dizzy, faint. "I shall go crazy, if I stay here. I'm not sure but I shall, anyway."

      She put on her bonnet, and went out into the warm June day. She saw the hills beyond the town, far off, and wrapped about with their own peace. She wished she were one of them. Then nothing would ever move her. The world, and the ways of men, would be nothing to her. The wheels might go on and on forever, but she would not mind them.

      But which to choose? Which to choose? The words made themselves into a little verse, and set themselves to the monotonous hum of turning spindles, and the click-clack of shuttles. Whenever she shut her eyes, she saw a great room, full of beautiful and costly things, with Lois, well and strong; and then she wavered, and the temptation, to prove unfaithful to her heart, was almost stronger than she could resist.

      Suddenly, the clangor of the factory bell smote on her ears. She turned, and looked down the road, wondering, vaguely, what the matter could be.

      A wild, shrill cry of fire came to her, on the wind, and at that instant, a great, black cloud of smoke broke from the upper windows of the factory. It was strange, but the first thought that came to Sybil, was one of exultation. If the factory burned down, she need never go back to her hateful work again. She would be free. Then she turned suddenly, and ran back to the burning building. Perhaps there was something her tired hands could do.

      She knew, before she reached it, that it could not be saved. The windows were loop-holes of fire. The eaves were wreathed with a fantastic cornice of writhing flame.

      Suddenly, a great cry rang out from the terror-stricken crowd. At the window of his private office, up stairs, she saw Leverson's frightened face. He must have been asleep, and had probably just awakened to the reality of his awful danger. She thought it was death. She could see no way of escape for him.

      "I'll try to save him," some one said. It was Dick. There was something grand in the sound of his voice, it seemed to her. Then she saw him fighting his way through the flames, and the last glimpse of his face showed her how brave and determined it was, in the wild tempest of fire. She dropped on her knees, and hid her face in her hands, saying, over and over again, in a prayerful way, "Dear Dick! oh, God save him!" She knew, then, that the lover who was risking his life for another, was more to her, than the lover he was risking it for could ever be. She had made her choice.

      Another cry, like a gasp, from the crowd. She looked up, and saw Dick at the window of Leverson's room. He had Leverson in his arms, and the man seemed to have fainted.

      "Throw up a rope!" cried Dick, hoarsely. Some strong hand flung one to him. He fastened it about the unconscious man, and lowered him to the ground, just as the flames burst out of the windows below him, wrapping the whole factory in one seething mass of fire.

      A groan ran through the crowd. There was no hope for Dick. He had saved a life, but lost his own.

      "Dick, oh, Dick!" Sybil's voice rang out, sharp and shrill, and those who heard it, never forgot the keen, awful pain in it. "Try to save yourself — for my sake!"

      Why she said that she never knew. But they were magical words. He heard, and leaned far out of the window, in a wild desire to save his life for the sake of the woman who loved him. He saw the wire of one of the lightning-rods, not a foot away from the window. Maybe it would be strong enough, to let him down through the roaring hell of fire. He would try. As well die in that way, as any other, if it must be death.

      He grasped the rod, and dropped down, down into the lurid abyss. The rod blistered his hands, but he clung to it. The flames billowed about him, and broke over him, but he held his breath, and slipped down, down, down. A thought came to him, that he was going down forever, and then — a blank.

      The first thing he remembered, after that, was a woman's face bending over him, and a woman's tears dropping on his face, and a woman's kiss was on his scorched lips, and Sybil's voice was saying, in a broken way, "Oh, poor, dear, brave Dick!" and then he thought he must have died, and this was heaven.

      They told him, afterwards, that he was a hero. Leverson came, and took his burned and bleeding hands in his, and said to him, that he had saved his life, and that he would prove his gratitude in a more substantial way than spoken thanks. And he did. But Dick only thought of one thing. Sybil had chosen — and the woman he had loved, and hoped to win — was won!

(THE END)