you know, if one did not possess great faith, they would be apt to doubt
the existence of a God, who can allow such injustice?"

"What injustice, my dear madam?" says he, smilin' blandly.

"You know, Mr. Post, just how my husband died: you know he was killed by
intemperance. A drinking-saloon was just as surely the cause of his death,
as the sword is, that pierces through a man's heart. Intemperance was the
cause of his crime. He, the one I loved better than my own self,
infinitely better, was made a murderer by it. I have lost him," says she,
a throwin' out her arms with a wild gesture that skairt me. "I have lost
him by it."

And her eyes looked as big and wild and wretched, as if she was lookin'
down the endless ages of eternity, a tryin' to find her love, and knew she
couldn't. All this was in her eyes, in her voice. But she seemed to
conquer her emotion by a mighty effort, tried to smother it down, and
speak calmly for the sake of her boy.

"And now, after I have suffered by it as I have, is it right, is it just,
that I should be compelled to allow my property to be used to make other
women's hearts, other mothers' hearts, ache as mine must ache forever?"

"But, my dear madam, the law, as it is now, gives me the right to do as I
am doing."

"I am pleading for justice, right: you have it in your power to grant my
prayer. Women have no other weapon they can use, only just to plead, to
beg for mercy."