“We have orphans, I know,” pursued Mr. Milvey, quite with the air as if he might have added, “in stock,” and quite as anxiously as if there were great competition in the business and he were afraid of losing an order, “over at the clay-pits; but they are employed by relations or friends, and I am afraid it would come at last to a transaction in the way of barter. And even if you exchanged blankets for the child⁠—or books and firing⁠—it would be impossible to prevent their being turned into liquor.”