"Oh, it is your poor!" she said. "It is always your poor! We rich must learn to yield precedence—"
"It is not a question of wealth or of poverty," he returned. "It is one of suffering. Can I help you?"
The bitterness faded from her mouth. "You can let me believe in you," she said. "Don't you know that it is because you despise my money that I call for you? I might have sent for a hundred persons yesterday who would have outrun my messenger. But I could not bring you an instant sooner for all my wealth—no, not even for the sake of the church you love."
"How do you know?" he asked, gravely. "Call no man unpurchasable until he has been bargained for."
She looked at him passionately. "That is why I give to your church," she went on; "because to you my thousand counts no more than my laundress's dime."
"But it does," he corrected; "and the church is grateful."
"But you?"
"I am the instrument of the church."
"The pillar, you mean."
He shook his head. There was no feeling in voice or eyes—but there was no hardness.