The author and the apostle both opened their mouths at the same moment, only to register a second triumph of the female tongue.

Miss Barker was in her element.  The whole table was listening.  She shrugged her orange-velvet shoulders.

“Those who have cast in their lot with the poor,” she said, sententiously, “would recognize at once the impossibility of Miss Gresley’s characters and situations.”

“To me they seem real,” said Rachel.

“Ah, my dear Miss West, you will excuse me, but a young lady like yourself, nursed in the lap of luxury, can hardly be expected to look at life with the same eyes as a poor waif like myself, who has penetrated to the very core of the city, and who has heard the stifled sigh of a vast perishing humanity.”

“I lived in the midst of it for six years,” said Rachel.  “I did not cast in my lot with the poor, for I was one of them, and earned my bread among them.  Miss Gresley’s book may not be palatable in some respects, the district visitor and the woman missionary are certainly treated with harshness, but, as far as my experience goes, The Idyll is a true word from first to last.”

There was in Rachel’s voice a restrained force that vaguely stirred all the occupants of the room.  Every one looked at her, and for a moment no one spoke.  She became quite colorless.

“Very striking.  Just what I should have said in her place,” said Sybell to herself.  “I will ask her again.”

“I can hear it raining,” said Doll’s voice from the head of the table to the company in general.  “If it will only go on for a week without stopping there may be some hope for the crops yet.”

The conversation buzzed up again, and Rachel turned instantly to Hugh, before Mr. Harvey, leaning forward with his ring, had time to address her.

Hugh alone saw what a superhuman effort it had been to her to overcome her shrinking from mentioning, not her previous poverty, but her personal experience.  She had sacrificed her natural reserve, which he could see was great; she had even set good taste at defiance to defend Hester Gresley’s book.  Hugh had shuddered as he heard her speak.  He felt that he could not have obtruded himself on so mixed an assembly.  Yet he saw that it had cost her more to do so than it would have cost him.

He began to remember having heard people speak of an iron-master’s daughter, whose father had failed and died, and who, after several years of dire poverty, had lately inherited a vast fortune from her father’s partner.  It had been talked about at the time, a few months ago.  This must be she.

“You have a great affection for Miss Gresley,” he said, in a low voice.

“I have,” said Rachel, her lip still quivering.  “But if I disliked her I hope I should have said the same.  Surely it is not necessary to love the writer in order to defend the book.”

Hugh was silent.  He looked at her, and wished that she might always be on his side.