In the conversation which followed, old Jombatiste, exploring at last Cousin Tryphena’s mind, leaned giddily over the abyss of her ignorance of political economy and sociology, dropping one exploring plummet after another into its depths, only to find them fathomless.  He went shakily back to his own house, silenced for once.

But, although for the first time he neglected work to do it, he returned to the attack the next day with a new weapon.  He made no more remarks about industrial slavery, nor did he begin, as was his wont, with the solemnly enunciated axiom, “Wealth comes from labor alone!” He laid down, on the Sheraton sideboard, an armful of his little magazines, and settled himself in a chair, observing with a new comprehension how instinctively Cousin Tryphena reached for her tatting as he began to read aloud.  He read the story of a man who was burned to death in molten steel because his employers did not install a rather expensive safety device, and who left a young widow and three children.  These tried to earn their livings by making artificial flowers.  They could earn, all of them working together, three cents an hour.  When the last dollar of the dead father’s savings was used up, and there was talk of separating the family so that the children could be put in an asylum, the mother drowned the three little ones and herself after them.  Cousin Tryphena dropped her tatting, her country-bred mind reeling.  “Didn’t she have any folks to help her out?”

Jombatiste explained that she came from East Poland, so that her folks, if indeed she had any, were too far away to be of use.  He struck one fist inside his palm with a fierce gesture, such as he used when he caught a boy trapping, and cried, “... and that in a country that produces three times the food it consumes.”  For the first time, a statistical statement awoke an echo in Cousin Tryphena’s atrophied brain.

Old Jombatiste read on, this time about a girl of seventeen, left by her parents’ death in charge of a small brother.  She had been paid twenty cents for making crocheted lace which sold for a dollar and a half.  By working twelve hours a day, she had been able to make forty-seven cents.  Seeing her little brother grow pale from lack of food, she had, in desperation, taken the first, the awfully decisive first step downward, and had almost at once thereafter vanished, drawn down by the maelstrom of vice.  The little brother, wild with grief over his sister’s disappearance, had been taken to an orphan asylum where he had since twice tried to commit suicide.

Cousin Tryphena sat rigid, her tatting fallen to the floor, her breath coming with difficulty.  It is impossible for the average modern mind, calloused by promiscuous reading, to conceive the effect upon her primitive organism of this attack from the printed page.  She not only did not dream that these stories might not be true, they seemed as real to her as though she had seen the people.  There was not a particle of blood in her haggard face.