d."

Then Sylvia opened upon the subject which had brought her there. She
had reached it by a process as natural as nature itself.

"I know one thing," said she: "I have no opinion of that woman. I
can't have. When I hear a woman saying such things as I have heard of
her saying about a girl, when I know it isn't true, I make up my mind
those things are true about the woman herself, and she's talking
about herself, because she's got to let it out, and she makes believe
it's somebody else."

Mrs. Ayres's face took on a strange expression. Her sweet eyes
hardened and narrowed. "What do you mean?" she asked, sharply.

"I guess I had better not tell you what I mean. Miss Farrel gives
herself clean away just by her looks. No living woman was ever made
so there wasn't a flaw in her face but that there was a flaw in her
soul. We're none of us perfect. If there ain't a flaw outside,
there's a flaw inside; you mark my words."

"What was it she said?" asked Mrs. Ayres.

"I don't mean to make trouble. I never did, and I ain't going to
begin now," said Sylvia. Her face took on a sweet, hypocritical
expression.

"What did she say?"

Sylvia fidgeted. She was in reality afraid to speak, and yet her very
soul itched to do so. She answered, evasively. "When a woman talks
about a girl running after a man, I think myself she lives in a glass
house and can't afford to throw stones," said she. She nodded her
head unpleasantly.

Mrs. Ayres reddened. "I suppose you mean she has been talking about
my Lucy," said she. "Well, I can tell you one thing, and I can tell
Miss Farrel, too. Lucy has never run after Mr. Allen or any man. When
she went on those errands to your house I had to fairly make her go.
She said that folks would think she was running after Mr. Allen, even
if he wasn't there, and she has never been, to my knowledge, more
than three times when he was there, and then I made her. I told her
folks wouldn't be so silly as to think such things of a girl like
her."

"Folks are silly enough for anything. Of course, I knew better; you
know that, Mrs. Ayres."

"I don't know what I know," replied Mrs. Ayres, with that forceful
indignation of which a gentle nature is capable when aroused.

Mrs. Whitman looked frightened. She opened her lips to speak, when a
boy came running into the yard. "Why, who is that?" she cried,
nervously.

"It's Tommy Smith from Gray & Snow's with some groceries I ordered,"
said Mrs. Ayres, tersely.