"Then I'll tell you. Not that I need to, but I want you to understand that I know. It means that out of every ton of ore that was delivered to this mill in May thirteen dollars and forty-five cents have been stolen."

Luna fairly gasped. He was startled by the statement to a cent of the amount stolen. He and his confederates had been compelled to take Pierre's unvouched statements. Therefore he could not controvert the figures, had he chosen. He did not know the amount.

"There must have been a mistake, sir."

"Mistake!" Firmstone blazed out. "What do you say to this?"

He pulled a canvas from the sacks of ore that had been brought to the office. He expected to see Luna collapse entirely. Instead, a look of astonishment spread over the foreman's face.

"I'll give up!" he exclaimed. He looked Firmstone squarely in the face.

He saw his way clearly now. "You're right," he said. "There has been stealing. It's up to me. I'll fire anyone you say, or I'll quit myself, or you can fire me. But, before G.o.d, I never stole a dollar from the Rainbow mill." He spoke the literal truth. The spirit of it did not trouble him.

Firmstone was astonished at the man's affirmations, but they did not deceive him, nor divert him from his purpose.

"I'm not going to tell you whom to let out or take in," he replied. "I'm holding you responsible. I've told you a good deal, but not all, by a good long measure. This stealing has got to stop, and you can stop it.

You would better stop it. Now go back to your work."

That very night Firmstone wrote a full account of the recovery of the stolen ore, the evils which he found on taking charge of the property, the steps which he proposed for their elimination. He closed with these words:

"It must be remembered that these conditions have had a long time in which to develop. At the very least, an equal time must be allowed for their elimination; but I believe that I shall be successful."

CHAPTER VI

_The Family Circle_

On the morning of elise's strike for freedom, Pierre came to breakfast with his usual atmosphere of compressed wrath. He glanced at his breakfast which Madame had placed on the table at the first sound which heralded his approach. There was nothing there to break the tension and to set free the pent-up storm within. Much meditation, with fear and trembling, had taught Madame the proper amount of b.u.t.ter to apply to the hot toast, the proportion of sugar and cream to add to the coffee, and the exact shade of crisp and brown to put on his fried eggs. But a man bent on trouble can invariably find a cause for turning it loose.

"Where is elise?" he demanded.

"elise," Madame answered, evasively, "she is around somewhere."

"Somewhere is nowhere. I demand to know." Pierre looked threatening.

"Shall I call her?" Madame vouchsafed.

"If you know not where she is, how shall you call her? Heh? If you know, mek ansaire!"

"I don't know where she is."

"_Bien!_" Pierre reseated himself and began to munch his toast savagely.

Madame was having a struggle with herself. It showed plainly on the thin, anxious face. The lips compressed with determination, the eyes set, then wavered, and again the indeterminate lines of acquiescent subjection gained their accustomed ascendency. Back and forth a.s.sertion and complaisance fled and followed; only a.s.sertion was holding its own.

The eggs had disappeared, also the greater part of the toast. Pierre swallowed the last of his coffee, and, without a look at his silent wife, began to push his chair from the table. Madame's voice startled him.

"elise is sixteen," she ventured.

Pierre fell back in his chair, astonished. The words were simple and uncompromising, but the intonation suggested that they were not final.

"Well?" he asked, explosively.

"When are you going to send elise away to school?"

"To school?" Pierre was struggling with his astonishment.

"Yes." Madame was holding herself to her determination with an effort.

"To school? _Baste!_ She read, she write, she mek ze figure, is it not suffice? Heh?"

"That makes no difference. You promised her father that you would send her away to school."

Pierre looked around apprehensively.

"Shut up! Kip quiet!"

"I won't shut up, and I won't keep quiet." Madame's blood was warming.

The sensation was as pleasant as it was unusual. "I will keep quiet for myself. I won't for elise."

"elise! elise! Ain't I do all right by elise?" Pierre asked, aggressively. "She have plenty to eat, plenty to wear, you tek good care of her. Don't I tek good care, also? Me? Pierre? She mek no complain, heh?"

"That isn't what her father wanted, and it isn't what you promised him."

Pierre looked thoughtful; his face softened slightly.

"We have no children, you and me. We have honly elise, one li'l girl, _la bonne_ elise. You wan' mek me give up _la bonne_ elise? _P'quoi?_"

His face blazed again as he looked up wrathfully. "You wan' mek her go to school! _P'quoi?_ So she learn mek _teedle, teedle_ on ze piano? So she learn speak gran'? So she tink of me, Pierre, one li'l Frenchmens, not good enough for her, for mek her shame wiz her gran' friends? Heh?

Who mek ze care for ze li'l babby? Who mek her grow up strong? Heh? You mek her go school. You mek ze gran' dam-zelle. You mek her go back to her pip'l. You mek me, Pierre, you, grow hol' wiz noddings? Hall ze res'

ze time wiz no li'l elise? How you like li'l elise go away and mek ze marry, and w'en she have li'l children, she say to her li'l children, '_Mes enfants, voila!_ Pierre and Madame, _tres bon_ Pierre and Madame,'

and _les pet.i.ts enfants_ mek big eyes at Pierre and Madame and li'l elise? She say, '_Pauvres enfants_, Pierre and Madame will not hurt you.

_Bon_ Pierre! _Bonne_ Madame!'" Pierre made a gesture of deprecating pity.

Madame was touched to the quick. Starting tears dimmed the heavy eyes.

Had she not thought of all this a thousand times? If Pierre cared so much for li'l elise how much more reason had she to care? Li'l elise had been the only bright spot in her dreary life, yet she was firm. elise had been very dear to her in the past, but her duty was plain. Her voice was gentler.

"elise is not ours, Pierre. It is harder to do now what we ought to have done long ago."

Pierre rose and walked excitedly back and forth. He was speaking half to himself, half to Madame.

"Sixtin year 'go li'l elise mammy die. Sixtin year! She no say, 'Madame Marie, tek my li'l babby back Eas' to my friend, _hein_? No. She say, 'Madame Marie, my poor li'l babby ain' got no mammy no mo'. Tek good care my poor li'l babby.' Then she go die. We mek good care of ze li'l elise, me and you, heh? We sen' away elise? _Sacre non!_ Nevaire!"

Pierre stopped, and looked fiercely at Madame.

"Yes," answered Madame. "Her mammy asked me to care for her little baby, but it was for her father. When her father died he made you promise to give her to her friends. Don't I know how hard it is?" Her tears were flowing freely now. "Every year we said, 'She is yet too young to go.

Next year we will keep our promise,' and next year she was dearer to us.

And now she is sixteen. She must go."