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where she clung like a little monkey, Sam opened the door and stood back to let Megan pass through. He didn't seem to relish the role of guide, or appreciate her company; after the first quick glance, he had not even looked directly at her.
    As they passed through the various stages of the processes that turned the rough bales of wool into finished cloth, Sam's comments were brusque to the point of rudeness. Admittedly, the noise of the machines, particularly in the huge high-ceilinged room that contained the power looms, made it difficult to hear even a shouted explanation. Megan did not ask for elaboration, she only nodded and tried to look intelligent. In fact, she had not the slightest interest in the process and only the dimmest hope of ever understanding it. However, she noticed that almost all the workers were adults. Some of the women at the looms were very young, in their early teens, perhaps, but there were none of the pallid, pathetic children she had dreaded seeing.
    Much more to her taste was the infirmary, where the brief tour ended. Megan's admiring exclamation at the sight of the neat little room seemed to please Sam; he smiled with unselfconscious pride.
    "It's the finest in the county—indeed, in the country, save, perhaps, for the one at Mr. Owen's mill in Lancashire. He's a fine man, Mr. Owen; he and Miss Jane exchange ideas, and he visited us here a few years back."
    "Robert Owen, the Socialist?" Megan asked. One of her employers had mentioned the name in terms of impassioned anger that had made it stick in her mind.
    Sam scowled. "If a Socialist is a man who cares for the welfare of his fellow man, then Mr. Owen is a Socialist. And so am I."
    Megan decided to abandon the subject. She preferred Sam's pleasant smile to his frown.
    She was introduced to the nurse, a bustling matron with an accent so thick Megan could hardly understand a word she said. But her gestures were self-explanatory, and Megan had no difficulty expressing the expected congratulations. There were only four beds, and the other accommodations were of Spartan simplicity; but the wide windows, which now stood open to the summer breeze, were double glazed, and the presence of a vent for a stovepipe suggested that sufferers who occupied the place during the winter months could expect the most modern comforts.
    The time had passed more quickly than Megan realized. When they returned to the office, they found Miss Mandeville gloved and bonneted, ready to leave. At the sight of Lina she exclaimed, "Dreadful child! What did you do, sit down in a puddle of dye?"
    Such appeared to be the case. The back of Lina's frilly skirt was purple from the waist down. Involuntarily Megan glanced at Sam and saw on his face the same look of amused guilt she felt on her own. Miss Mandeville cut his apologies short.
    "Never mind, she will have to ride home in her shift, like Lady Godiva. That is a local tale, you know, Miss O'Neill; we are proud of the lady's charitable impulse and resent the liberties sensational writers have taken with her costume. Have you ever ridden horseback naked? I did not suppose you had. I assure you that even a saint would find it uncomfortable."
    As she spoke, her nimble fingers divested Lina of the paint-stained frock and lifted her into the carriage. Lina broke into a fit of giggles and insisted on standing up so that everyone could see her unconventional costume. Miss Mandeville did not protest, but directed Megan to keep a firm hold on the rear of the small pantelets.
    Turning for a last look, Megan saw that Sam was standing in the yard watching them. Finally that elusive sense of familiarity crystallized.
    "He looks like you," she exclaimed, and then clapped her hand to her mouth, wishing she had not spoken.
    "Not surprising," said Miss Mandeville calmly. "My grandmother was the sister of his grandfather. You'll see the Freeman features all over the neighborhood. They have lived in the parish for centuries. Sadly, however, the