His wandering eye fell on Hester’s book.

“I can’t attend to graver things to-night,” he said, “I will take a look at Hester’s story.  I showed her my paper on “Dissent,” so, of course, I can dip into her book.  I hate lopsided confidences, and I dare say I could give her a few hints, as she did me.  Two heads are better than one.  The Pratts and Thursbys all think that bit in The Idyll where the two men quarrelled was dictated by me.  Strictly speaking, it wasn’t, but no doubt she picked up her knowledge of men, which surprises people so much, from things she has heard me say.  She certainly did not want me to read her book.  She said I should not like it.  But I shall have to read it some time, so I may as well skim it before it goes to the printers.  I have always told her I did not feel free from responsibility in the matter after The Idyll appeared with things in it which I should have made a point of cutting out, if she had only consulted me before she rushed into print.”

Mr. Gresley lifted the heavy mass of manuscript to his writing-table, turned up his reading-lamp, and sat down before it.

The church clock struck nine.  It was always wrong, but it set the time at Warpington.

There were two hours before bedtime—­I mean “Bedfordshire.”

He turned over the first blank sheet and came to the next, which had one word only written on it.

“Husks!” said Mr. Gresley.  “That must be the title.  Husks that the swine did eat.  Ha!  I see.  A very good sound story might be written on that theme of a young man who left the Church, and how inadequate he found the teaching—­the spiritual food—­of other denominations compared to what he had partaken freely of in his Father’s house.  Husks!  It is not a bad name, but it is too short.  ‘The Consequences of Sin’ would be better, more striking, and convey the idea in a more impressive manner.”  Mr. Gresley took up his pen, and then laid it down.  “I will run through the story before I alter the name.  It may not take the line I expect.”

It did not.

The next page had two words on it: 

     “TO RACHEL.”

What an extraordinary thing!  Any one, be they who they might, would naturally have thought that if the book were dedicated to any one it would be to her only brother.  But Hester, it seemed, thought nothing of blood relations.  She disregarded them entirely.

The blood relation began to read.  He seemed to forget to skip.  Page after page was slowly turned.  Sometimes he hesitated a moment to change a word.  He had always been conscious of a gift for finding the right word.  This gift Hester did not share with him.  She often got hold of the wrong end of the stick.  He could hardly refrain from a smile when he came across the sentence, “He was young enough to know better,” as he substituted in a large illegible hand the word old for young.  There were many obvious little mistakes of this kind that he corrected as he read, but now and then he stopped short.