r a tiresome dialogue came on. Ellen sometimes drew him into
society, and on Sundays he usually went with Mrs. Witherspoon to a
Congregational church where a preacher who had taught his countenance
the artifice of a severe solemnity denounced the money-chasing spirit
of the age at about double the price that he had received in the East.

The Witherspoons had much company and they entertained generously,
though not with a showy lavishness, for the old man had a quick eye
for the appearance of waste. It was noticeable, too, that since Henry
came young women who were counted as Ellen's friends were more
frequent with their visits. Witherspoon rarely laughed at anything,
but he laughed at this. His wife, however, discovered in it no cause
for mirth. A mother may plan the marriage of her daughter, for that is
romantic, but she looks with an anxious eye upon the marriage of her
son, for that is serious.

One evening, when Witherspoon and Henry had gone into the library to
smoke, the merchant remarked: "I want, to talk to you about the course
of your paper."

"All right, sir."

The merchant stood on the hearth-rug. He lighted his cigar, turned it
round and round, and then said:

"Brooks called my attention this afternoon to an article on working
girls. Does it meet with your approval?"

"Why, yes. It was a special assignment, and I gave it out."

"Hum!" Witherspoon grunted. He sat down in his leather-covered chair,
crossed his legs, struck a match on the sole of his slipper, relighted
his cigar, which he had suffered to go out, and for a time smoked in
silence.

"Is there anything wrong about it?" Henry asked.

"I might ask you if there is anything right about it," Witherspoon
replied. "'The poor ye have with you always,' was uttered by the Son
of God. It was not only a prophecy, but a truth for all ages. There
are grades in life, and who made them? Man. Ah, but who made man? God.
Then who is responsible for the grades? Nature sets the example of
inequality. One tree is higher than another." His cigar had gone out.
He lighted it again and continued: "Writers who seek to benefit the
poor of ten injure them--teach them a dissatisfaction which in its
tarn brings a sort of reprisal on the part of capital."

"I don't agree with you," said Henry.

"Of course not."

"I have cause to know that you are wrong, sir."

"You think you have," the merchant replied.

"It is true," Henry admitted, "that we shall always have t