these generous mill-owners allow you?"

"I never was marry."

The young man looked up at the mill windows where childish heads were
bobbing to and fro.

"That was poor judgment, Etienne. You might have married and have a
dozen children now, working hard for you in the mill. Just like those
children yonder."

The old man came to the end of his foot-bridge and flung down his rake
and his pike-pole.

The sudden emotions of his Gallic forebears swept through him. His
features worked, his voice was high with passion.

"Ba gar, I don't sleep the night because I think about dem poor childs.
Dem little white face, dem arm, dem leg--all dry up--not so big as
chicken leg. And all outdoor free to odder childs--not to them childs
up dere." He shook his fists at the mill windows. And some child who
saw the motion, getting a hasty peep from a widow, squealed, "Hi yi, old
Pickaroon!"

"It doesn't pay to get too excited over the sorrows of the world, my
friend," drawled the young man under the tree. "It doesn't do any good;
and then somebody calls you names. I was something like you once. But
I've changed my philosophy. I have hypnotized my altruism. Now I'm
perfectly happy."