fortably and be happy. If their religion teaches them that, if their Church permits it, I don't want any of their religion, nor anything to do with their Church."
If he had succeeded in nothing else, he had at least succeeded in drawing her out, and in leading her to give expression to her grievance. But she had attacked the Church in a vulnerable spot, and it was his duty as a priest to defend the institution and its people.
"I believe," he said, "that you unwittingly do the men and women of Christ Church an injustice. There are many of them who are rich, it is true. But there are many of these who have warm hearts and a keen sense of human justice. You know there are such persons as Christian capitalists."
"Yes, I know. There," pointing to the body in the next room, "lies one of their victims. John Bradley was killed by Christian capitalists."
"Mrs. Bradley, you are severe and unjust."
"Am I? Let me tell you." She did not resent his reproof. She was perfectly calm; she was even smiling. But she wanted now to be heard. "Two years ago my husband worked in the Brookside factory, two miles down the river. You know the place. The company rented all the houses to its men. We had to take what they gave us; a miserable, dilapidated shack on the edge of a stagnant pond. My little girl took sick and pined away and the doctor said we ought not to keep her in such a place. When we thought she would die my husband went to the manager of the mills—he's a shining light in the Church; not your church, but that doesn't matter—and begged him, for the sake of the child, to give us a better house to live in. He told my husband that if he was not satisfied with the house the company had provided for him he was at liberty to quit his job; that his place could be filled in three hours' time. Well, John did quit his job, and found work here at the Malleson. But it was too late—to save—my baby's life."
