dn't so much as touch
the dirty thing, only I thought maybe you hadn't heard of it."

Without a word, Raeburn held out his hand for the printed letter. Erica,
standing at a little distance, watched the faces of the three men Tom,
grave, yet somewhat flushed; Hazeldine, with a scornful glitter in
his dark eyes; her father? Last of all she looked at him and looking,
learned the full gravity of this new trouble. For, as he read, Raeburn
grew white, with the marble whiteness which means that intense anger
has interfered with the action of the heart. As he hastily perused the
lines, his eyes seemed to flash fire; the hand which still held the
measuring tape was clinched so tightly that the knuckle looked like
polished ivory.

Erica could not ask what was the matter, but she came close to him. When
he had finished reading, the first thing his eye fell upon was her face
turned up to his with a mute appeal which, in spite of the anxiety in
it, made her look almost like a child. He shrank back as she held
out her hand for the letter; it was so foul a libel that it seemed
intolerable to him that his own child should so much as read a line of
it.

"What is it?" she asked at length, speaking with difficulty.

"A filthy libel circulated by that liar Pogson! A string of lies
invented by his own evil brain! Why should I keep it from you? It is
impossible! The poisonous thing is sown broadcast through the land. You
are of age there read it, and see how vile a Christian can be!"

He was writhing under the insult, and was too furious to measure his
words. It was only when he saw Erica's brave lip quiver that he felt
with remorse that he had doubled her pain.

She had turned a little away from him, ostensibly to be nearer to the
gas, but in reality that he might not see the crimson color which surged
up into her face as she read. Mr. Pogson was as unscrupulous as fanatics
invariably are. With a view of warning the public and inducing them to
help him in crushing the false doctrine he abhorred, he had tried to
stimulate them by publishing a sketch of Raeburn's personal character
and life, drawn chiefly from his imagination, or from distorted and
misquoted anecdotes which had for years been bandied about among his
opponents, losing nothing in the process. Hatred of the man Luke Raeburn
was his own great stimulus, and we are apt to judge others by ourselves.
The publication of this letter really seemed to him likely to do great
good,