"O Ralph! Ralph! let us stay right here then and see if we can't do something to prevent it--something to stay this cruel, cruel slaughter. It seems to me we might talk to the boys and watch over them and save now and then one at least." "You are right, dear. We _could_ do it if we could go to work hand in hand, with nobody to hold us back. It _would_ be better and braver to stay here and wrestle with the monster than to try to hide away from it; and please God we _will_ do it--after, you know when. We can't hope to accomplish much if we go to work single-handed, eh? We will be doubly armed for it before another year comes around." The hand that lay in his gave a quick pressure in response and he went on manfully: "We have been fools and blind in this matter long enough. Something is going to be done about it before long. I have talked with a great many with regard to it since Lutie had his fingers shot off, and I have gathered some astonishing statistics--statistics that ought to set us to thinking and acting too." "O Ralph! Ralph! Tell me all about it! Tell me everything! I will work for it night and day. Bless you, Ralph. O, how good it is to hear you say that we _can_ do something and _will_." Ruth was fairly wild with joy. She kissed his hand and cheek and brow, over and over again with a fervor that was new to him and very, very delightful. The betrothal kiss was nothing in comparison. Compliments on her grace and beauty had failed to call forth any such expressions of love. "To begin with," he said at last, "I have found out that we have more Independence Day accidents in this town than in any other town of its size in the state. What do you think the reason is?" "O! I know, Ralph. It's because Millionaire Schwarmer comes every Fourth and distributes a carload of fireworks. I know it is; and I believe he gave Laurens the package that cost him his life, though he tried to make it appear that he did not. How does he know who he gives to when he is distributing his death-dealers right and left!" sobbed Ruth. "He doesn't know," said Ralph, "and he doesn't care or think about it; but he ought to be made to think. We know he gave Lutie the box of cartridges that tore off his finger. He ought to have been prosecuted for it and I am going to tell him so some day. I am not afraid of his millions. The trouble with people here is that they have got in the habit of bowing down to him and worshipping him--the golden calf! and being a calf instead of a wise man he fancies that he owns us all--body and soul--and may do anything he chooses with us." "I believe it, Ralph. He has taken it into his stupid head to pat my shoulder and call me Miss Pretty when he sees me of late."