Hannah came to her sister’s rescue: 

“Hester didn’t mean that it was that kind of a lie, and it wasn’t.  But it was a lie.”

“Well, upon my word, I never heard such nonsense!  Haven’t you got sense enough to discriminate between lies!  Don’t you know the difference between a lie that helps and a lie that hurts?”

“All lies are sinful,” said Hannah, setting her lips together like a vise; “all lies are forbidden.”

The Only Christian fidgeted impatiently in his chair.  He went to attack this proposition, but he did not quite know how or where to begin.  Finally he made a venture: 

“Hester, wouldn’t you tell a lie to shield a person from an undeserved injury or shame?”

“No.”

“Not even a friend?”

“No.”

“Not even your dearest friend?”

“No.  I would not.”

The doctor struggled in silence awhile with this situation; then he asked: 

“Not even to save him from bitter pain and misery and grief?”

“No.  Not even to save his life.”

Another pause.  Then: 

“Nor his soul?”

There was a hush—­a silence which endured a measurable interval —­then Hester answered, in a low voice, but with decision: 

“Nor his soul?”

No one spoke for a while; then the doctor said: 

“Is it with you the same, Hannah?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“I ask you both—­why?”

“Because to tell such a lie, or any lie, is a sin, and could cost us the loss of our own souls—­would, indeed, if we died without time to repent.”

“Strange . . . strange . . . it is past belief.”  Then he asked, roughly:  “Is such a soul as that worth saving?” He rose up, mumbling and grumbling, and started for the door, stumping vigorously along.  At the threshold he turned and rasped out an admonition:  “Reform!  Drop this mean and sordid and selfish devotion to the saving of your shabby little souls, and hunt up something to do that’s got some dignity to it!  Risk your souls! risk them in good causes; then if you lose them, why should you care?  Reform!”

The good old gentlewomen sat paralyzed, pulverized, outraged, insulted, and brooded in bitterness and indignation over these blasphemies.  They were hurt to the heart, poor old ladies, and said they could never forgive these injuries.

“Reform!”

They kept repeating that word resentfully.  “Reform—­and learn to tell lies!”

Time slipped along, and in due course a change came over their spirits.  They had completed the human being’s first duty—­which is to think about himself until he has exhausted the subject, then he is in a condition to take up minor interests and think of other people.  This changes the complexion of his spirits—­generally wholesomely.  The minds of the two old ladies reverted to their beloved niece and the fearful disease which had smitten her; instantly they forgot the hurts their self-love had received, and a passionate desire rose in their hearts to go to the help of the sufferer and comfort her with their love, and minister to her, and labor for her the best they could with their weak hands, and joyfully and affectionately wear out their poor old bodies in her dear service if only they might have the privilege.