even in those days Mercer was showing signs of what it was
ultimately to become: the apotheosis of materialism and
vulgarity. Iron was entering into its soul. It thought extremely
well of itself; when a new mill was built, or a new furnace blown
in, it thought still better of itself. It prided itself upon its
growth; in fact, its complacency, its ugliness and its size kept
pace with one another.

"Look at our output," Sarah Maitland used to brag to her general
manager, Mr. Robert Ferguson; "and look at our churches! We have
more churches for our size than any town west of the
Alleghanies."

"We need more jails than any town, east or west," Mr. Ferguson
retorted, grimly.

Mrs. Maitland avoided the deduction. Her face was full of pride.
"You just wait! We'll be the most important city in this country
yet, because we will hold the commerce of the world right here in
our mills!" She put out her great open palm, and slowly closed
the strong, beautiful fingers into a gripping fist. "The commerce
of the world, right _here!" she said, thrusting the clenched
hand, that quivered a little, almost into his face.

Robert Ferguson snorted. He was a melancholy man, with thin,
bitterly sensitive lips, and kind eyes that were curiously
magnified by gold-rimmed eyeglasses, which he had a way of
knocking off with disconcerting suddenness. He did not, he
declared, trust anybody. "What's the use?" he said; "you only get
your face slapped!" For his part, he believed the Eleventh