"My sister is not albata ware,—that you hate, Mrs. Sheppard. She is no sham. When God said to her, 'Do this thing,' she did not ask the neighbors to measure it by their rule of right and wrong."
"Well, well, little Grey,"—with a forbearing smile,—"she is your sister,—you're a clannish body. Your heart's all right, my dear,"—patting the hard nervous hand that lay on the table,—"but you never studied theology, that's clear."
"I don't know."
Mrs. Blecker's face grew hot; but that might have been the steam of the coffee-urn.
"We'll be just to Lizzy," said her husband, gravely. "She had a hurt lately. I don't think she values her life for much now. It is a hungry family, the Gurneys,"—with a quizzical smile. "My wife, here, kept the wolf from the door almost single-handed, though she don't understand theology. You are quite right about that. When I came home here two months ago, she would not be my wife; there was no one to take her place, she said. So, one day, when I was in my office alone, Lizzy came to me, looking like a dead body out of which the soul had been crushed. She had been hurt, I told you:—she came to me with an open letter in her hand. It was from the manager of one of the second-rate opera-troupes. The girl can sing, and has a curious dramatic talent, her only one.
"'It is all I am capable of doing,' she said. 'If I go, Grey can marry. The family will have a sure support.'
"Then she folded the letter into odd shapes, with an idiotic look.
"'Do you want me to answer it?' I asked.
"'Yes, I do. Tell him I'll go. Grey can be happy then, and the others will have enough to eat. I never was of any use before.'
"I knew that well enough. I sat down to write the letter.