“Mr. Harrigan, Jessie? He passes the collection plate at St. George's! That's the only place you've ever seen him, and that's all you know about him.”
“I know what everybody says, Hal! Papa knows him, and my brothers—yes, your own brother, too! Isn't it true that Edward would disapprove what you're doing?”
“Yes, dear, I fear so.”
“And you set yourself up against them—against everybody you know! Is it reasonable to think the older people are all wrong, and only you are right? Isn't it at least possible you're making a mistake? Think about it—honestly, Hal, for my sake!”
She was looking at him pleadingly; and he leaned forward and took her hand. “Jessie,” he said, his voice trembling, “I know that these working people are oppressed; I know it, because I have been one of them! And I know that such men as Peter Harrigan, and even my own brother, are to blame! And they've got to be faced by some one—they've got to be made to see! I've come to see it clearly this summer—that's the job I have to do!”
She was gazing at him with her wide-open, beautiful eyes; underneath her protests and her terror, she was thrilling with awe at this amazing madman she loved. “They will kill you!” she cried.
“No, dearest—you don't need to worry about that—I don't think they'll kill me.”
“But they shot at you!”
“No, they shot at Joe Smith, a miner's buddy. They won't shoot at the son of a millionaire—not in America, Jessie.”
“But some dark night—”