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hesitated. Like Dr. Hammerfield, he was unused to this fierce “infighting,” as Ernest called it.
    â€œThe history of the eighteenth century is written,” Ernest prompted. “If the Church was not dumb, it will be found not dumb in the books.”
    â€œI am afraid the Church was dumb,” the Bishop confessed.
    â€œAnd the Church is dumb to-day.”
    â€œThere I disagree,” said the Bishop.
    Ernest paused, looked at him searchingly, and accepted the challenge.
    â€œAll right,” he said. “Let us see. In Chicago there are women who toil all the week for ninety cents. Has the Church protested?”
    â€œThis is news to me,” was the answer. “Ninety cents per week! It is horrible!”
    â€œHas the Church protested?” Ernest insisted.
    â€œThe Church does not know.” The Bishop was struggling hard.
    â€œYet the command to the Church was, ‘Feed my lambs,’ ” Ernest sneered. And then, the next moment, “Pardon my sneer, Bishop. But can you wonder that we lose patience with you? When have you protested to your capitalistic congregations at the working of children in the Southern cotton mills? 21 Children, six and seven years of age, working every night at twelve-hour shifts? They never see the blessed sunshine. They die like flies. The dividends are paid out of their blood. And out of the dividends magnificent churches are builded in New England, wherein your kind preaches pleasant platitudes to the sleek, full-bellied recipients of those dividends.”
    â€œI did not know,” the Bishop murmured faintly. His face was pale, and he seemed suffering from nausea.
    â€œThen you have not protested?”
    The Bishop shook his head.
    â€œThen the Church is dumb to-day, as it was in the eighteenth century?”
    The Bishop was silent, and for once Ernest forbore to press the point.
    â€œAnd do not forget, whenever a churchman does protest, that he is discharged.”
    â€œI hardly think that is fair,” was the objection.
    â€œWill you protest?” Ernest demanded.
    â€œShow me evils, such as you mention, in our own community, and I will protest.”
    â€œI’ll show you,” Ernest said quietly. “I am at your disposal. I will take you on a journey through hell.”
    â€œAnd I shall protest.” The Bishop straightened himself in his chair, and over his gentle face spread the harshness of the warrior. “The Church shall not be dumb!”
    â€œYou will be discharged,” was the warning.
    â€œI shall prove the contrary,” was the retort. “I shall prove, if what you say is so, that the Church has erred through ignorance. And, furthermore, I hold that whatever is horrible in industrial society is due to the ignorance of the capitalist class. It will mend all that is wrong as soon as it receives the message. And this message it shall be the duty of the Church to deliver.”
    Ernest laughed. He laughed brutally, and I was driven to the Bishop’s defence.
    â€œRemember,” I said, “you see but one side of the shield. There is much good in us, though you give us credit for no good at all. Bishop Morehouse is right. The industrial wrong, terrible as you say it is, is due to ignorance. The divisions of society have become too widely separated.”
    â€œThe wild Indian is not so brutal and savage as the capitalist class,” he answered; and in that moment I hated him.
    â€œYou do not know us,” I answered. “We are not brutal and savage.”
    â€œProve it,” he challenged.
    â€œHow can I prove it . . . to you?” I was growing angry.
    He shook his head. “I do not ask you to prove it to me. I ask you to prove it to yourself.”
    â€œI know,” I said.
    â€œYou know nothing,” was his rude reply.
    â€œThere, there, children,” father said soothingly.
    â€œI don’t care—” I began indignantly, but Ernest