“You must have seen some hard experiences in your life,” I said.
“That I have,” responded Bill Hahn, “the capitalistic system—”
“Did you ever work in the mills yourself?” I interrupted hastily.
“Boy and man,” said Bill Hahn, “I worked in that hell for thirty-two years—The class-conscious proletariat have only to exert themselves—”
“And your wife, did she work too—and your sons and daughters?”
A spasm of pain crossed his face.
“My daughter?” he said. “They killed her in the mills.”
It was appalling—the dead level of the tone in which he uttered those words—the monotone of an emotion long ago burned out, and yet leaving frightful scars.
“My friend!” I exclaimed, and I could not help laying my hand on his arm.
I had the feeling I often have with troubled children—an indescribable pity that they have had to pass through the valley of the shadow, and I not there to take them by the hand.