His wife had a question on her lips, a question for which she had to summon all her courage.  She chose that form for it which would hurt him least.

“Mr. Worthington is going to try to change these things?”

Mr. Merrill roused himself at the words, and his eyes flashed.  He became a different man.

“Change them!” he cried bitterly, “change them for the worse, if he can.  He will try to wrest the power from Jethro Bass.  I don’t defend him.  I don’t defend myself.  But I like Jethro Bass.  I won’t deny it.  He’s human, and I like him, and whatever they say about him I know that he’s been a true friend to me.  And I tell you as I hope for happiness here and hereafter, that if Worthington succeeds in what he is trying to do, if the railroads win in this fight, there will be no mercy for the people of that state.  I’m a railroad man myself, though I have no interest in this affair.  My turn may come later.  Will come later, I suppose.  Isaac D. Worthington has a very little heart or soul or mercy himself; but the corporation which he means to set up will have none at all.  It will grind the people and debase them and clog their progress a hundred times more than Jethro Bass has done.  Mark my words, Carry.  I’m running ahead of the times a little, but I can see it all as clearly as if it existed now.”

Mrs. Merrill went about her duties that morning with a heavy heart, and more than once she paused to wipe away a tear that would have fallen on the linen she was sorting.  At eleven o’clock the doorbell rang, and Ellen appeared at the entrance to the linen closet with a card in her hand.  Mrs. Merrill looked at it with a, flurry of surprise.  It read:—­

Miss Lucretia Penniman

The Woman’s Hour

CHAPTER X

It was certainly affinity that led Miss Lucretia to choose the rosewood sofa of a bygone age, which was covered with horsehair.  Miss Lucretia’s features seemed to be constructed on a larger and more generous principle than those of women are nowadays.  Her face was longer.  With her curls and her bonnet and her bombazine,—­which she wore in all seasons,—­she was in complete harmony with the sofa.  She had thrown aside the storm cloak which had become so familiar to pedestrians in certain parts of Boston.

“My dear Miss Penniman,” said Mrs. Merrill, “I am delighted and honored.  I scarcely hoped for such a pleasure.  I have so long admired you and your work, and I have heard Cynthia speak of you so kindly.”

“It is very good of you to say so, Mrs. Merrill” answered Miss Lucretia, in her full, deep voice.  It was by no means an unpleasant voice.  She settled herself, though she sat quite upright, in the geometrical centre of the horsehair sofa, and cleared her throat.  “To be quite honest with you, Mrs. Merrill,” she continued, “I came upon particular errand, though I believe it would not be a perversion of the truth if I were to add that I have had for a month past every intention of paying you a friendly call.”