“’Tis all the lazy ones ’ould be coming if we told on the poor boy,” said Ellen gratefully, as they hurried home.  “Ain’t he got the good heart?  We’d ought to be very discrate, Mike!” and Mike agreed by a most impatient gesture, but by the time summer had begun to wane the agent was a far poorer man than when it had begun.  Mike and Ellen Carroll were only the leaders of a sorrowful procession that sought his door evening after evening.  Some asked for help who might have done without it, but others were saved from actual want.  There were a few men who got work among the farms, but there was little steady work.  The agent made the most of odd jobs about the mill yards and contrived somehow or other to give almost every household a lift.  The village looked more and more dull and forlorn, but in August, when a traveling show ventured to give a performance in Farley, the Corporation hall was filled as it seldom was filled in prosperous times.  This made the agent wonder, until he followed the crowd of workless, sadly idle men and women into the place of entertainment and looked at them with a sudden comprehension that they were spending their last cent for a little cheerfulness.

VI.

The agent was going into the counting-room one day when he met old Father Daley and they stopped for a bit of friendly talk.

“Could you come in for a few minutes, sir?” asked the younger man.  “There’s nobody in the counting-room.”

The busy priest looked up at the weather-beaten clock in the mill tower.

“I can,” he said. “’Tis not so late as I thought.  We’ll soon be having the mail.”

The agent led the way and brought one of the directors’ comfortable chairs from their committee-room.  Then he spun his own chair face-about from before his desk and they sat down.  It was a warm day in the middle of September.  The windows were wide open on the side toward the river and there was a flicker of light on the ceiling from the sunny water.  The noise of the fall was loud and incessant in the room.  Somehow one never noticed it very much when the mills were running.

“How are the Duffys?” asked the agent.

“Very bad,” answered the old priest gravely.  “The doctor sent for me—­he couldn’t get them to take any medicine.  He says that it isn’t typhoid; only a low fever among them from bad food and want of care.  That tenement is very old and bad, the drains from the upper tenement have leaked and spoiled the whole west side of the building.  I suppose they never told you of it?”

“I did the best I could about it last spring,” said the agent.  “They were afraid of being turned out and they hid it for that reason.  The company allowed me something for repairs as usual and I tried to get more; you see I spent it all before I knew what a summer was before us.  Whatever I have done since I have paid for, except what they call legitimate work and care of property.  Last year I put all Maple Street into first-rate order—­and meant to go right through the Corporation.  I’ve done the best I could,” he protested with a bright spot of color in his cheeks.  “Some of the men have tinkered up their tenements and I have counted it toward the rent, but they don’t all know how to drive a nail.”