“They are not his own kind!” The bee for the moment forgets that she is committed to the soft footing of diplomacy. “I will not hear it said that they are his own kind! We are his own kind: we Americans!” “Hoity-toity and here’s a to-do!” cries the aged wasp. “Are we, indeed? Not I, you minx! That gullible old fool, Selden Dana, has been preaching from the same text. He wheedled me into withdrawing my libel suit against the young backbiter. Why I was silly enough to do so, _I_ don’t know. Now, what are you asking me to do?” “Help,” answers the visiting bee, and sets forth a general outline of her plan. “Boycott,” observes the shrewd old wasp, after turning it over in her mind. “Oh, not in the least!” disclaims the bee. “That would be illegal.” “Pooh! Who cares for laws! Boycott it is, against any merchant who won’t support The Guardian. Is n’t it?” “It might appear--” “Appear! Don’t hem-and-haw with me, Miss Pert. I can hire Dana to do that. You’re asking the women of this city to boycott the stores that boycott The Guardian.” “Dear me, no!” returns the bee demurely. “We are only suggesting a practical method of showing appreciation of Mr. Rob--of The Guardian’s patriotic course. And if you will join our little association and bring your Red Cross work down with you for a few minutes each morning, that is all we ask of you.” “Of me! There’s the point. _Me!_ I’ve been libeled and slandered and traduced and held up to public scorn,” sizzles the wasp (who had, since the withdrawal of the suit, enjoyed one last reading of Judge Dana’s comprehensive complaint with stimulating influence upon her style), “and now you have the assurance to ask me to rush to the aid of this reckless young muck-raker. It’s absurd! It’s outrageous! It’s an impudence! It’s an imposition! It’s--it’s--I’ll do it.” “I knew you would,” softly says the bee (who had n’t known anything of the sort, and has, indeed, dreaded this visit above all others). “I do not think you will ever be sorry.” “I hope _you_ won’t,” retorts the wasp vigorously and significantly. “That’s a dangerous character, that young Robson. Have a care of him!” Having made captive her most difficult subject, the missionary bee now descends upon one hardly less difficult, Mrs. Vemam Merserole, wife (and, if rumor be correct, head of the house) of the “nickel-in-the-slot” corner. Mrs. Merserole, looking meek, according to her practice, but stubborn, according to her character, harks back to past injuries, and talks darkly of defamers of character as one might say “persecutors of the saints.” “That was before we were at war, Mrs. Merserole,” her caller reminds her. Mrs. Merserole looks up quickly from her clasped hands. “You think that to-day Mr. Robson would not make an unprincipled attack upon--upon a clergyman who did nothing more than his duty?”