"Very little, very little," he returned, shaking his head sadly. "For this reason: The churches, while having, of course, many good men as their pastors, are filled up with more grafters, it seems, and mean rascals as well, until the calling is not fulfilled. I don't hesitate t'

say that there are more grafters among the preachers, than any other profession among the colored people in this town. And the Baptists have, and still are, building so many little churches, until every dime available, and unavailable too, is used fo' this purpose, instead of some means to help the chillun."

"Don't you think, figuratively speaking, that there are too many Negro churches?"

"'Course the' is, a-course. Why there are more than seventy Baptist churches among Negroes in the town alone. That in itself, is an example of the utter selfishness tha' p'vails heh."

"How does it come about? It seems to me that the organization of the church system must be very loose, to permit of such a wholesale building of churches all the time. It would seem advisable that if they had fewer churches, with better conduct in the administration of those few, more good would result."

"Well, the Baptists are dominated, to some extent, by the a.s.sociation, but it is inadequate in many ways. For instance, when they rule a pastor out, he claims to a handful of devouts and friends, that he has been made the goat of a frame-up, starts him a church in some shack, or any other place where he can concentrate a few shouters, and continues."

"And what effect does all this have upon the children?"

He held up his hand in despair. "Brother, brother! That is the sad part.

The colored child in this town is lucky, 'f he becomes anything else but a criminal before he does anything else. His surroundings 'n'--what's that other thing?" he stopped short, and held his hand to his head.

"Environment?"

"That's it! His 'nvironment is so bad. He is surrounded by eve' thing conducive t' crime 'n' degeneration. He sees, hears, 'n' is brought in contact, in his eve' day life, with all that is evil, 'n' learns t'

drink whiskey befo' he gets into pants. And now, instead of the Negro churches concentrating their efforts toward the raising of the child, they put all the fo'ce into the preacher's lungs, trying t' convert ole sinnahs that nothin' but h.e.l.l itse'f will effect."

"A library, and Y.M.C.A., properly conducted, might have some effect for the good, don't you think?"

"A dead investment fo' yeahs t' come, fo' the reason that they would have no incentive to attend either. Without clean, intelligent parents, 'n' better conducted churches, such cannot fulfill the purpose."

"Hadn't we better be going?" called Miss Palmer at this moment. "It's getting late."

The two shook hands as they parted. As Sidney went over the hill, that sloped for a long way down to the car line, he did not seem to hear Miss Palmer, and he answered her mechanically.

He was thinking, thinking of what he had learned, in the last hour, from John Smith, merchant.

CHAPTER SIX

"_Yes--Miss Latham_"

Three weeks had pa.s.sed since Mildred Latham first saw the city she now called home. She considered it the only home she ever really had; because she had in one person a friend, such as she had never felt she would have. That friend was Constance Jacobs. Daily, they went forth together in their work, which was the sale of _The Tempest_. There was another, who was, apparently, a friend also. That was Wilson Jacobs--but more of him later.

Where there is congeniality, understanding and sympathy, there is happiness to a degree. When such is the case, every day--despite even an arduous task, within itself, becomes a holiday. Such were the days which Mildred Latham experienced. Constance was like a sister. One of those rare creatures, whose happiness came in her honest and sincere desire, to see that others were happy about her. She had found Mildred a girl secretive to an unfathomable degree, and, to say the least, strange; but withal, a personality, and a sympathy that was so sincere, even devout, that she loved her more than her own soul. That affection seemed to grow and become more apparent when she saw, slowly but truly, nevertheless, a cloud lifting from the brow of the girl who came to her door in quest of lodging, not long since.

"Wilson," said she one day, "do you know, can you appreciate how much it means to one to please somebody; to make one feel happy, relieved, and in turn, see that person, come to know her, and see how genuinely she can, in turn, appreciate what one does?"

"You are dealing in riddles today, Constance. I don't understand; but I will guess. Is it Mil--Miss Latham?"

"Yes--_Miss_ Latham," whereupon she smiled upon him, and then looked away.

"Yes," she resumed, looking out of the window upon a small garden she was trying to further, "it is she. I think if I know her until the end of my days, there will always be something strange--something I do not--can never understand; but, in addition to showing a kind regard for the little things it pleases one's heart to do, she makes me so happy."

"She keeps me puzzled," said Wilson. "I can never make up my mind about her. She is indeed a mystery. I do not, as I can see, have any clue in guessing who she is--and what she is, nor can I even conjecture. She is a lady. But as you say, and have said before, there is something about her that one can never understand." He was thoughtful. Presently he heard his sister.

"She is an excellent saleswoman, although I do not think she was selling the book until she came here. I have not asked her. She is one of these people who, while not forbidding approach, yet her manner does not invite questioning. But she is a business woman--girl. I cannot come to see her as a girl, and yet, in the sense we know her, she is not a woman."

"I finished the book. That young man had an extraordinary experience, to say the least," said Wilson.

"Mr. Carroll has finished the copy I sold him, but his sympathies are not altogether with the pioneer; he criticises him."

"How's that? Oh, yes, I understand. I have heard the same thing from others. They see it; that the pioneer should have seen the evil and insincerity of the preacher, and should have governed his happiness accordingly. Yes," he went on, "but the pioneer _did_ see that the preacher meant no good; he was aware, fully aware that he was about to become the victim of an intrigue. But regardless of this fact, it must be appreciated, that if this grave incident had not come to pa.s.s in the life of that young man, we would not now have the book. Men do not----"

"And women."

"Yes, of course," he smiled, "write that kind of book unless their lives have met with extreme reverses; something in their souls has gone amiss, and, as a last resort--I can't quite find the words to explain it; but it--what they write--is a brief of the soul; while the public is the court, and to this court, as in the common court of the land, they cry out for justice, rest.i.tution."

"Well," sighed Constance, "whoever this Lochinvar is, and regardless of his misfortunes, writing the book has made one person happy. That person is Mildred Latham. The book is her hobby. I would give something to learn why she is so wrapped up in the work; but it gives her more pleasure, I am sure, to show it to someone, and tell them the story a dozen times a day, than it does some of those levee Negroes to get drunk. And the work, she is simply lost in it. She makes the six work days of the week seem like one, with her cheerful enthusiasm. The very life in itself seems to please her. To make readers out of mult.i.tudes who've never given reading a second thought, seems to be her great ambition. She succeeds, too. And at the end of such days, more than at any other time, she is like I fancy her to be: Feminine, lovable, sympathetic--human in all its depths."

"We certainly struck it rich when she condescended to play for the choir. And she can seem to get more out of the organ than anyone has heretofore."

"She sings too. I never knew that she could sing so sweetly, until she led last Sunday, when Bernice Waverly was ill."

"She almost made me forget my text."

"She's coming now," whispered Constance, as, upon the narrow walk, a familiar footfall sounded. Presently the screen slammed lightly behind the one of their conversation.

"I've been clear to the river, walked all the way there and back. Thirty blocks in all," she cried cheerfully, surveying both, smilingly.

"And after all the walking you did today in delivering!" Constance remonstrated softly. "You mustn't overdo your good health, dear. We would both be terribly upset if you were taken down in any way. Did you know that?" The other was taken by surprise. She was plainly embarra.s.sed for a moment, and to dismiss it she plucked childlike at her skirts.

Presently she said lightly:

"Always saying something, Constance." And suddenly she flew into the caress of the other. "I haven't become used to such words, yet, and you'll have to be careful in using them. Because," and here she buried her head against the other's shoulder, "I might be likely to boo-hoo."

The three laughed it away now.

"Constance tells me, Miss Latham," said Wilson, "that you are an agent, sophisticated in all the arts that result in a sale." His eyes now sought hers with unfeigned admiration.

"Constance is, too; and did she not mention herself?" She rated Constance now the least bit severely. "You never give yourself credit for anything. Why don't you?" She frowned, but it was too grateful--her appearance--to be accepted seriously.

"How many copies are both of you delivering weekly now?" he inquired.

"We delivered eighty-seven this week so far, and forty-five last week,"

replied Mildred, sitting very close to his sister on a small settee.

"Have you ever thought, Mildred," said Constance, "that selling a book, or anything, for that matter, is a task within itself, calling always for initiative. The average person has not the courage, at least he has not practiced it, that would make a salesman or saleswoman. All of us, with possibly a few exceptions, are chattels, human chattels. The ordinary person would stand on his head on a nail for an hour, if someone told him that was right; whereas, to take upon himself the task of leading anything, he is an utter failure."

"Constance is psychological today, don't you think?" smiled her brother; but Mildred accepted the words seriously and listened for more.

Constance had a turn of logic, and was in the habit, Mildred had learned, of saying some very serious things at times; although she could not be regarded as entirely serious.

"That is why I think you are so successful, Mildred," she went on. "You seem to be possessed with initiative; it seems a part of your construction; you seem charged with it; and, in addition to this, is your kind regard and appreciation, for another's point of view."