“
Judge Henry,” said Molly Wood, also coming straight to the point, “have you come to tell me that you think well of lynching?” He met her. “Of burning Southern negroes in public, no. Of hanging Wyoming cattle thieves in private, yes. You perceive there’s a difference, don’t you?” “Not in principle,” said the girl, dry and short. “Oh—dear—me!” slowly exclaimed the Judge. “I am sorry that you cannot see that, because I think that I can. And I think that you have just as much sense as I have.” The Judge made himself very grave and very good-humored at the same time. The poor girl was strung to a high pitch, and spoke harshly in spite of herself. “What is the difference in principle?” she demanded. “Well,” said the Judge, easy and thoughtful, “what do you mean by principle?” “I didn’t think you’d quibble,” flashed Molly. “I’m not a lawyer myself.” A man less wise than Judge Henry would have smiled at this, and then war would have exploded hopelessly between them, and harm been added to what was going wrong already. But the Judge knew that he must give to every word that the girl said now his perfect consideration. “I don’t mean to quibble,” he assured her. “I know the trick of escaping from one question by asking another. But I don’t want to escape from anything you hold me to answer. If you can show me that I am wrong, I want you to do so. But,” and here the Judge smiled, “I want you to play fair, too.” “And how am I not?
”
”