ociety is
due to the ignorance of the capitalist class. It will mend all that is
wrong as soon as it receives the message. And this message it shall be
the duty of the Church to deliver."

Ernest laughed. He laughed brutally, and I was driven to the Bishop's
defence.

"Remember," I said, "you see but one side of the shield. There is
much good in us, though you give us credit for no good at all. Bishop
Morehouse is right. The industrial wrong, terrible as you say it is,
is due to ignorance. The divisions of society have become too widely
separated."

"The wild Indian is not so brutal and savage as the capitalist class,"
he answered; and in that moment I hated him.

"You do not know us," I answered. "We are not brutal and savage."

"Prove it," he challenged.

"How can I prove it . . . to you?" I was growing angry.

He shook his head. "I do not ask you to prove it to me. I ask you to
prove it to yourself."

"I know," I said.

"You know nothing," was his rude reply.

"There, there, children," father said soothingly.

"I don't care--" I began indignantly, but Ernest interrupted.

"I understand you have money, or your father has, which is the same
thing--money invested in the Sierra Mills."

"What has that to do with it?" I cried.

"Nothing much," he began slowly, "except that the gown you wear is
stained with blood. The food you eat is a bloody stew. The blood of
little children and of strong men is dripping from your very roof-beams.
I can close my eyes, now, and hear it drip, drop, drip, drop, all about
me."

And suiting the action to the words, he closed his eyes and leaned back
in his chair. I burst into tears of mortification and hurt vanity. I had
never been so brutally treated in my life. Both the Bishop and my father
were embarrassed and perturbed. They tried to lead the conversation
away into easier channels; but Ernest opened his eyes, looked at me,
and waved them aside. His mouth was stern, and his eyes too; and in the
latter there was no glint of laughter. What he was about to say, what
terrible castigation he was going to give me, I never knew; for at that
moment a man, passing along the sidewalk, stopped and glanced in at us.
He was a large man, poorly dressed, and on his back was a great load of
rattan and bamboo stands, chairs, and screens. He looked at the house as
if debating whether or not he should come in and try to sell some of his
wares.

"That man's name is Jackson," Ernest said.