"I've heard Weedon Moore talking to the men." She gave him a look of acute interest. "Really, Jeff? Now, where?" "The old circus-ground. I heard him. And he's pulling down, Amabel. He's destroying. He's giving those fellows an idea of this country that's going to make them hate it, trample it--" He paused as if the emotion that choked him made him the more impatient of what caused it. "That's it," said she, her own face settling into a mournful acquiescence. "We've earned hate. We must accept it. Till we can turn it into love." "But he's preaching discontent." "Ah, Jeffrey," said she, "there's a noble discontent. Where should we be without it?" He got up, and shook his head at her, smilingly, tenderly. She had made him feel old, and alien to this strange new day. "You're impossible, dear," said he, "because you're so good. You've only to see right things to follow them and you believe everybody's the same." "But why not?" she asked him quickly. "Am I to think myself better than they are?" "Not better. Only more prepared. By generations of integrity. Think of that old boy up there." He glanced affectionately at the judge, a friend since his childhood, when the painted eyes had followed him about the room and it had been a kind of game to try vainly to escape them. "Take a mellow soil like your inheritance and the inheritance of a lot of 'em here in Addington. Plant kindness in it and decency and--" "And love of man," said Miss Amabel quietly. "Yes. Put it that way, if you like it better. I mean the determination to play a square game. Not to gorge, but make the pile go round. Plant in that kind of a soil and, George! what a growth you get!" "I don't find fewer virtues among my plainer friends." "No, no, dear! But you do find less--less background." "That's our fault, Jeff. We've made their background. It's a factory wall. It's the darkness of a mine." "Exactly. Knock a window in here and there, but don't chuck the reins of government into the poor chaps' hands and tell 'em to drive to the devil." Her face flamed at him, the bonfire's light when prejudice is burned. "I know," she said, "but you're too slow. You want them educated first. Then you'll give them something--if they deserve it." "I won't give them my country--or Weedon Moore's country--to manhandle till they're grown up, and fit to have a plaything and not smash it." "I would, Jeffrey." "You would?" "Yes. Give them power. They'll learn by using it. But don't waste time. Think of it! All the winters and summers while they work and work and the rest of us eat the bread they make for us." "But, good God, Amabel! there isn't any curse on work. If your Bible tells you so, it's a liar. You go slow, dear old girl; go slow." "Go slow?" said Amabel, smiling at him. "How can I? Night and day I see those people. I hear them crying out to me." "Well, it's uncomfortable. But it's no reason for your delivering them over to demagogues like Weedon Moore."