“This man,” he proclaimed, “this father, mournin' for his dead wife and longin' for his child, comes to the town where he was to find and take her. And when he meets the man that's got her, when he comes, poor and down on his luck, what does this man--this rich man--do? Why; fust of all, he's sweeter'n sirup to him, takes him in, keeps him overnight, and the next day he says to him: 'You just be quiet and say nothin' to nobody that she's your little girl. I'll make it wuth your while. Keep quiet till I'm ready for you to say it.' And he gives the father money--not much, but some. All right so fur, maybe; but wait! Then it turns out that the father knows about this land--this property. And THEN the kind, charitable man--this rich man with lots of money of his own--turns the poor father out, tellin' him to get the girl and the land if he can, knowin'--KNOWIN', mind you--that the father ain't got a cent to hire lawyers nor even to pay for his next meal. And when the father says he won't go, but wants his dear one that belongs to him, the rich feller abuses him, knocks him down with his fist! Knocks down a poor, weak, lame invalid, just off a sick bed! Is THAT the kind of a man we want on our school committee?” He asked the question with both hands outspread and the perspiration running down his cheeks. The meeting was in an uproar. “No need for me to tell you who I mean,” shouted Tad, waving his arms. “You know who, as well as I do. You've just heard him praised as bein' all that's good and great. But _I_ say--” “You've said enough! Now let me say a word!” It was Captain Cy who interrupted. He had pushed his way through the crowd, down the aisle, and now stood before the gesticulating Mr. Simpson, who shrank back as if he feared that the treatment accorded the “poor weak invalid” might be continued with him. “Knowles,” said Captain Cy, turning to the moderator, “let me speak, will you? I won't be but a minute. Friends,” he continued, facing the excited gathering--“for some of you are my friends, or I've come to think you are--a part of what this man says is so. The girl at my house is Emily Thomas; her mother was Mary Thomas, who some of you know, and her father's name is Henry Thomas. She came to me unexpected, bein' sent by a Mrs. Oliver up to Concord, because 'twas either me or an orphan asylum. I took her in meanin' to keep her a little while, and then send her away. But as time went on I kept puttin' off and puttin' off, and at last I realized I couldn't do it; I'd come to think too much of her.