nd the
Pratts and the Thursbys need not read it."

"No one will read it," said Mr. Gresley. "It was a profane, wicked book.
No one will read it."

"I am not so sure of that," said Hester.

The brother and sister looked at each other with eyes of flint.

"No one will read it," repeated Mr. Gresley--he was courageous, but all
his courage was only just enough--"because, for your own sake, and for
the sake of the innocent minds which might be perverted by it, I have--I
have--burned it."

Hester stood motionless, like one struck by lightning, livid, dead
already--all but the eyes.

"You dared not," said the dead lips. The terrible eyes were fixed on
him. They burned into him.

He was frightened.

"Dear Hester," he said, "I will help you to rewrite it. I will give up
an hour every morning till--" Would she never fall? Would she always
stand up like that? "Some day you will know I was right to do it. You
are angry now, but some day--" If she would only faint, or cry, or look
away.

"When Regie was ill," said the slow, difficult voice, "I did what I
could. I did not let your child die. Why have you killed mine?"

There was a little patter of feet in the passage. The door was slowly
opened by Mary, and Regie walked solemnly in, holding with extreme care
a small tin-plate, on which reposed a large potato.

"I baked it for you, Auntie Hester," he said, in his shrill voice, his
eyes on the offering. "It was my very own 'tato Abel gave me. And I
baked it in the bonfire and kept it for you."

Hester turned upon the child like some blinded, infuriated animal at
bay, and thrust him violently from her. He fell shrieking. She rushed
past him out of the room, and out of the house, his screams following
her. "I've killed him," she said.

The side gate was locked. Abel had just left for the night. She tore it
off its hinges and ran into the back-yard.

The bonfire was out. A thread of smoke twisted up from the crater of
gray ashes. She fell on her knees beside the dead fire, and thrust apart
the hot embers with her bare hands.

A mass of thin black films that had once been paper met her eyes. The
small writing on them was plainly visible as they fell to dust at the
touch of her hands.

"It is dead," she said in a loud voice, getting up. Her gown was burned
through where she had knelt down.

In the still air a few flakes of snow were falling in a great
compassion.

"Quite dead," said Hester. "Regie and the book."