for a servant, ordered his horse to be saddled. The foot-man who answered his summons brought the afternoon’s mail, and Amherst, throwing himself down on the sofa, began to tear open his letters while he waited.
He ran through the first few without knowing what he read; but presently his attention was arrested by the hand-writing of a man he had known well in college, and who had lately come into possession of a large cotton-mill in the South. He wrote now to ask if Amherst could recommend a good manager—“not one of your old routine men, but a young fellow with the new ideas. Things have been in pretty bad shape down here,” the writer added, “and now that I’m in possession I want to see what can be done to civilize the place”; and he went on to urge that Amherst should come down himself to inspect the mills, and propose such improvements as his experience suggested. “We’ve all heard of the great things you’re doing at Westmore,” the letter ended; and Amherst cast it from him with a groan.…
It was Duplain’s chance, of course … that was his first thought. He took up the letter and read it over. He knew the man who wrote—no sentimentalist seeking emotional variety from vague philanthropic experiments, but a serious student of social conditions,
now unexpectedly provided with the opportunity to
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