he WQuldhave felt differently,
nd acted differently.
'frt But ,Yates did not know. He
hesitated for a moment, and Anne
Morgan added :
"I have not come to pry into
your affairs. I have some money
of my own. I want to find out
the truth about conditions here,
and I want to help all those who
ace in want to the best of my
, So Yates simply said: "I will
show yop," and led Anne Morgan
Into the soup kitchen, which was
crowded with women . and chil
dren, thin and gaunt, and hungry
. Thus the trust-maker's daugh
ter was brought face to. face with
her father's handijwork. For J.
Pi'erpont Morgan is the man who
organized the American Woolen
company, which is the Wooi
Trust, and whjch is chiefly responsible-Tor
the grinding out of
the Ijves and happiness of hun
dreds of thousands of New Eng
land textile workers, which was
responsible for the Lawrence
Anne Morgan is 39 years old.
Slie has a quiet, good face. Some
people call her beautiful.
As she stood there in the soup
kitchen and looked, at the wan,
hopeless faces of the Women
strikers, at their pitiful rags of
clothes, at the awful way in
which the little children grabbed
at the food, like the wild animals
starvation-' almost had turned
them into, she looked 50 years
old, and her face was lined, and
drawn, and haggard.
Anne Morgan stood there in
the middle of the soup kitchen
and looked around her with wide
eyes, that had jn them more of
horror than tff pity.
Perhaps she was thinking of
Her reverie was interrupted by
"Here are the records," he said.
Anne.. Morgan went over to a
little table in a corner of the soup
kitchen, and read over the statis
tical stories of distress and suf
fering from the union's relief
And her hands were trembling,
and the tears were in her eyes.
No one .knows just what she
did after she left the soup kitch
en. But thisjmuch is certain.
In many a little home in Lawr
ence, they will tell you stories of
a quiet, plainly dressed woman,
of sorrowful face, who mysteri
ously appeared "during the strike
and paid rent "bills, and doctor
bills, and druggist bills, and gro
cer bills, and as mysteriously dis
appeared leaving no name, ac
cepting no thanks.
Perhaps that woman was An
ne Morgan. Perhaps not.
But there is no question of one
thjng. What Anne Morgan saw
and heard at Lawrence, Mass.,
made a deep and lasting impres-
sion on her mind; an impression
which separates her far from her
father's pet theory of the "divine
right oi ricHes," the last resort of
every conscience-accused, crook
ed capitalist, to which Morgan
has turned in his old age.
This is what she said to the
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