t me tell you, sir, that
we are confronted with a problem that is more serious than that which
was solved by Lincoln."

Witherspoon looked at him as though he could think of no reply. At one
moment he seemed to be filling up with the gathering impulses of
anger; at another he appeared to be humiliated.

"Are you my son?" he asked.

"Presumably. An impostor would yield to your demands; he would win
your confidence that he might steal your money."

"Yes," said the merchant, and he sat in silence.

Henry was the first to speak. "If you were poor, and with the same
intelligence you have now, what would you advise the poor man to do?"

"I should advise him to do as I did when I was poor and as I do
now--work. Now, let me tell you something: Last year your mother and I
gave away a great deal of money--we do so every year. Does that look
as if I am grinding the poor? You have hurt me."

"I am sorry. But if I have hurt you with a truth, it should make you
think."

Witherspoon looked at him, and this time it was with resentment.
"What! you talk about making me think? Young man, you don't know what
it is to think. You are confounded with the difference between
sentimentalism and thought. You go ahead and print your newspaper and
don't worry about the workingwoman. Her class will be larger and worse
off, probably, a hundred years after you are dead."

"Yes, but before that time her class may rise up and sweep everything
before it. A democracy can't long permit a few men to hold all the
wealth. But there's no good to come from a discussion with you."

"You are right," said Witherspoon, "but hold on a moment. Don't go
away believing that I have no sympathy for the poor. I have, but I
haven't time to worry with it. There is no reason why any man should
be poor in this country."

Henry thought of a hundred things to say, but said nothing. He knew
that it was useless; he knew that this man's strength had blinded him
to the weakness of other men, and he felt that American aristocracy
was the most grinding of all aristocracies, for the reason that a
man's failure to reach its grade was attributable to himself alone.

CHAPTER XIV.

A DIFFERENT HANDWRITING.

Henry bade Witherspoon good night and went to his room. A fire was
burning in the grate. At the window there was a rattle of sleet. He
lighted his old briar-root pipe and sat down. He had, as usual, ceased
to argue with himself; he simply mused. He acknowledge