“Hush!” said Auntie.
I wonder why!
“Elsie,” said Uncle gravely, “we owe a debt of gratitude to our forefathers. This land is to-day drunk with prosperity, yet every foot of our broad acres, these miles and miles of fertile fields, have been won by the sweat of toiling manhood, supported by the tears of trusting, oftentimes gentle, womanhood. I am afraid the fruit of all these sacrifices are not falling into the hands of those who are worthiest of them.”
“That might be said of any land,” objected Mumsie. “I suppose all land was wild once upon a time.”
“In Europe the land was cleared two or three thousand years ago; our land has been cleared within the last few generations,” retorted Uncle. “I don’t suppose our ancestors in the British Isles or in Normandy found it much hardship to live in log huts, to do their own washing, or to forego their morning paper.”
“That is where the Lien money came from—from grinding these poor farmers’?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I was not sorry for the reply, because it showed I was not wrong in my instinctive dislike of the good lady.
“And what does the present Mr. Lien do?”
“He’s a stockbroker. When a rich man dies and leaves a son of no particular abilities they make a broker of him. The stock market covers a multitude of sins.” Uncle was smiling again.