"Yes."
"Won't you come in?"
"No, thanks, I can say what I've got to right here."
Mr. Flint placed the lamp on a table. His hand trembled, and as he turned he staggered, but caught and steadied himself by grasping the door-knob.
"I've come," Mrs. Stout began, "to say somethin' that won't do any good, prob'ly, but I want to be sure that you don't think that everybody in Manville has got the same ideas as you about some things in pertic'ler."
"I have never entertained that idea," replied the parson.
"Perhaps not, but you might have." Mrs. Stout hesitated for a moment, and then her anger broke forth. "Mr. Flint, you made a big mistake this mornin'. You said everything that you could say to spoil the good name of one of the best women that ever lived. She never did you, or anybody else, any harm, but you and all the rest seem bound to drive her away with as black a name as you can give her. The women folks wa'n't satisfied with kickin' her out of their houses, they must get the school committee to discharge her. And then you, a man that is s'posed to show folks how to live right, and believe in God, spend a whole Sunday mornin' runnin' her down." Mrs. Stout stopped because she was out of breath.
"My dear Mrs. Stout," the parson replied, "it is not the woman that I am opposed to, but the principles involved and violated, the morals offended and endangered. Those susceptible to corruption who—"
"Corruption!" snapped Mrs. Stout. "Do you mean to say that she could corrupt anybody in any costume?"
"Well—er—the—er—minds of the young—"