"No, it's punch," he broke in; "and what's the use of dickering with a little two-for-a-cent high-brow, superior, exclusive, self-righteous rag of a daily that will reach only a handful of sissy people? Democracy is here; and it's here for keeps, the rule of the many good or bad; and it's as your old parson said in the court room, it's _going to be the United States of the World_. What's the use of issuing a rag sheet that will preach to a little parlorful of sissies and high-brows? You've got to get the crowd, and to educate 'em up to self-government, to pelt 'em to a pulp with facts! You've got to get 'em if you take them by the scruff of the neck, Miss MacDonald! While the churches and the teachers and the preachers sit back self-superior and self-sufficient, Miss MacDonald, where's the crowd? They're out in the street! You've got to get 'em! You've got to get the facts before 'em! People curse the yellow journals! All right! But they reach an audience of a million a day; every one of them; and your self-superior journals don't touch ten-thousand! Miss MacDonald, which is having the telling influence, for good or evil? Which is getting the crowd? Oh, I know they publish pictures of pugilists' big toes and base ball pitchers' thumbs the size of a half page; but if I could ram a moral truth or a hard fact down the fool-public's throat on the very next page by advertising it with a pugilist's big toe, I'd do it--you bet! I'd take a leaf out of the Devil's note book and go him one better! You ask whether I'd publish a yellow journal? Miss MacDonald, if I could get the facts of exactly what is going on in this country before the public, I wouldn't publish 'em yellow! I'd publish truth bloody red!" When the Williams and Matthews came in from the missionary meeting, Eleanor was standing under the centre light leaning against the table with her back to the door. "Feeling better, dear?" asked Mrs. Williams. "So much better that I'm going to bed to sleep every minute for the first night for a week." "Surely," cried Williams clapping his hands. "A MacDonald never had nerves." Matthews was trying to read her face as she shook hands saying good-night. "No," she answered his look, shaking her head, "I must decide for myself, Mr. Matthews." The three stood talking in the room she had left. "Do you think we ought to have told her?" asked Mrs. Williams solicitously. "No! Leave Wayland t' tell her himself t'morrow! A make no doubt that buckboard won't hold five people! Is it six o'clock we set out? A'm longin' for m' own wee uns!" "One thing," declared Williams, throwing himself on a chair, "if Wayland runs, I'm going to stump it for him! We've got to get busy, Matthews! The old order changeth! We've got to keep up with the procession!" If you had not known her utter conservatism as to all things pertaining to women, you could not appreciate the response of the missionary's wife. (She was an ultra-anti-suffragette.)