he poor with
us."

"I thought so," said Witherspoon.

"But it is not true that an attempt to aid them is harmful. Their
condition has steadily improved since history "--

"You are a sentimentalist."

"I am more than that," said Henry. "I am a man."

"Hum! And are you more than that?"

"How could I be more?"

"Easily enough. You could be an anarchist."

"And is that a step higher?"

"Wolves think so."

"But I don't"

"I hope not."

They sat in silence. The young man was angry, but he controlled
himself.

"It is easy to scatter dangerous words in this town," said the
merchant. "And, sir,"--he broke off, rousing himself,--"look at the
inconsistency, the ridiculousness of your position. I employ more than
a thousand people; my son says that I oppress them. I"--

"Hold on; I didn't say that. I don't know of any injustice that you
inflict upon your employes; but I do know of such wrongs committed by
other men. But you have shown me that the condition of those creatures
is hopeless."

"What creatures?"

"Women who work for a living."

"And do you know the cause of their hopelessness?"

"Yes; poverty and oppression."

"Ah, but what is the cause of their poverty?"

"The greed of man."

"Oh, no; the appetite of man--whisky. Nine out of ten of those
so-called wretched creatures can trace their wretchedness to drink."

"But it is not their fault."

"Oh!"

Henry was stunned. He saw what a wall he was butting against. "And is
this to go on forever?" he asked.

"Yes, forever. 'The poor ye have with you always.'"

"But present conditions may be overturned."

"Possibly, but other conditions just as bad, or even worse, will build
on the ruins. That is the history you spoke of just now."

"But slavery was swept away--and, let me affirm," he suddenly broke
off, "that the condition of the poorer people in this town is worse
than the slavery that existed in the South. From that slavery the
government pointed toward freedom, and mill-owners in the North
applauded--men, too, mind you, who were the hardest of masters. I can
bring up now the picture of a green lane. I can see an old negro woman
sweeping the door-yard of her cabin, and she sings a song. Her husband
is at work in the field, and her happy children are fishing in the
bayou. That is the freedom which the government pointed out--the
freedom which a God-inspired Lincoln proclaimed. But do you hear any
glad songs among the slaves in the North? Le