with fire and eloquence because she spoke
with authority, Seth too talked with a bitter brilliance that won the
crowd and held it against its will. With biting sarcasm and horrible
accuracy Seth drew a picture of Fanny as made Green Valley smile and
laugh before it could catch itself and realize the cruelty of its
laughter.

Fanny stood at the foot of the wide flight of stairs like a criminal at
the bar. As Seth's words grew more biting, his judgments more cruel,
Fanny's face flushed with shame, then faded white with pain.

But Seth went too far. He went so far that he couldn't stop himself.
And the crowd who had gathered to hear a little harmless fun now stood
petrified and heartsick. No one stirred, though everybody was wishing
themselves miles away. And Seth's voice, dripping with cruelty, went
on.

Then all at once from the heart of the crowd a little figure pushed its
way. It was Seth's wife, Ruth. She walked halfway up that flight of
stairs and looked steadily at her husband. Seth stopped in the middle
of a word.

"Seth Curtis," Ruth's face was as white as Fanny's and her voice rang
out like a silver bell, "Seth Curtis, you will apologize, ask
forgiveness of Fanny Foster, who is my friend and an old schoolmate, or
before God and these people I will disown you as my husband and the
father of my children. Fanny Foster never had an apple or a goody in
her lunch in the old school days that she didn't share it with
somebody. She has never had a dollar or a joy that she hasn't divided.
No one in Green Valley ever had a pain or a sorrow that she did not
make it hers and try to help in some way. And in all the world there
can be no more willing hands than hers."

The silver voice stopped, choked with sobs, and Ruth's eyes, looking
down on the shrunken, bowed figure of Green Valley's gossip, brimmed
over with tears.

Seth, sober now, stared at his wife, at the broken, crushed Fanny, at
the crowd that stood waiting in still misery.

Ruth walked down to Fanny and flung her arms about her. Fanny patted
her friend's shoulder softly and tried to comfort not herself but Ruth.
"There, there, Ruthie, don't, don't take on so. Remember, you're
nursing a baby and it might make him sick. It's all right,
everything's all right. Only," Fanny's voice was dull and colorless
and she never once raised her head, "only I wish John wouldn't hear of
this. I've been such a disappointment to John without--this."

Thoug