The article was an arraignment of Jethro Bass—­and a terrible arraignment indeed.  Step by step it traced his career from the beginning, showing first of all how he had debauched his own town of Coniston; how, enlarging on the same methods, he had gradually extended his grip over the county and finally over the state; how he had bought and sold men for his own power and profit, deceived those who had trusted in him, corrupted governors and legislators, congressmen and senators, and even justices of the courts:  how he had trafficked ruthlessly in the enterprises of the people.  Instance upon instance was given, and men of high prominence from whom he had received bribes were named, not the least important of these being the Honorable Alva Hopkins of Gosport.

Mrs. Merrill looked up from the paper in dismay.

“It’s copied from the Newcastle Guardian,” she said, for lack of immediate power to comment.  “Isn’t the Guardian the chief paper in that state?”

“Yes, Worthington’s bought it, and he instigated the article, of course.  I’ve been afraid of this for a long time, Carry,” said Mr. Merrill, pacing up and down.  “There’s a bigger fight than they’ve ever had coming on up there, and this is the first gun.  Worthington, with Duncan behind him, is trying to get possession of and consolidate all the railroads in the western part of that state.  If he succeeds, it will mean the end of Jethro’s power.  But he won’t succeed.”

“Stephen,” said his wife, “do you mean to say that Jethro Bass will try to defeat this consolidation simply to keep his power?”

“Well, my dear,” answered Mr. Merrill, still pacing, “two wrongs don’t make a right, I admit.  I’ve known these things a long time, and I’ve thought about them a good deal.  But I’ve had to run along with the tide, or give place to another man who would; and—­and starve.”

Mrs. Merrill’s eyes slowly filled with tears.

“Stephen,” she began, “do you mean to say—?” There she stopped, utterly unable to speak.  He ceased his pacing and sat down beside her and took her hand.

“Yes, my dear, I mean to say I’ve submitted to these things.  God knows whether I’ve been right or wrong, but I have.  I’ve often thought I’d be happier if I resigned my office as president of my road and became a clerk in a store.  I don’t attempt to excuse myself, Carry, but my sin has been in holding on to my post.  As long as I remain president I have to cope with things as I find them.”

Mr. Merrill spoke thickly, for the sight of his wife’s tears wrung his heart.

“Stephen,” she said, “when we were first married and you were a district superintendent, you used to tell me everything.”

Stephen Merrill was a man, and a good man, as men go.  How was he to tell her the degrees by which he had been led into his present situation?  How was he to explain that these degrees had been so gradual that his conscience had had but a passing wrench here and there?  Politics being what they were, progress and protection had to be obtained in accordance with them, and there was a duty to the holders of bonds and stocks.