“Are not the people learning anything?” Edith asked.

“Not much, except to bear it, I am sorry to say.  Even Father Damon—­”

“Is he at work again?  Do you see him often?”

“Yes, occasionally.”

“I should so like to see him.  But I interrupted you.”

“Well, Father Damon has come to see that nothing can be done without organization.  The masses”—­and there was an accent of bitterness in her use of the phrase—­“must organize and fight for anything they want.”

“Does Father Damon join in this?”

“Oh, he has always been a member of the Labor League.  Now he has been at work with the Episcopal churches of the city, and got them to agree, when they want workmen for any purpose, to employ only union men.”

“Isn’t that,” Edith exclaimed, “a surrender of individual rights and a great injustice to men not in the unions?”

“You would see it differently if you were in the struggle.  If the working-men do not stand by each other, where are they to look for help?  What have the Christians of this city done?” and the little doctor got up and began to pace the room.  “Charities?  Yes, little condescending charities.  And look at the East Side!  Is its condition any better?  I tell you, Mrs. Delancy, I don’t believe in charities—­in any charities.”

“It seems to me,” said Edith, with a smile calculated to mollify this vehemence, “that you are a standing refutation of your own theory.”

“Me?  No, indeed.  I’m paid by the dispensary.  And I make my patients pay—­when they are able.”

“So I have heard,” Edith retorted.  “Your bills must be a terror to the neighborhood.”

“You may laugh.  But I’m establishing a reputation over there as a working-woman, and if I have any influence, or do any little good, it’s owing to that fact.  Do you think they care anything about Father Damon’s gospel?”

“I should be sorry to think they did not,” Edith said, gravely.

“Well, very little they care.  They like the man because they think he shares their feelings, and does not sympathize with them because they are different from him.  That is the only kind of gospel that is good for anything over there.”

“I don’t think Father Damon would agree with you in that.”

“Of course he would not.  He’s as mediaeval as any monk.  But then he is not blind.  He sees that it is never anything but personal influence that counts.  Poor fellow,” and the doctor’s voice softened, “he’ll kill himself with his ascetic notions.  He is trying to take up the burden of this life while struggling under the terror of another.”

“But he must be doing a great deal of good.”

“Oh, I don’t know.  Nothing seems to do much good.  But his presence is a great comfort.  That is something.  And I’m glad he is going about now rousing opposition to what is, rather than all the time preaching submission to the lot of this life for the sake of a reward somewhere else.  That’s a gospel for the rich.”