Margret listened, waked reluctantly to the sense of a different pain in the world from her own,--lower deeps from which women like herself draw delicately back, lifting their gauzy dresses.
"Miss Marg'et!" Her face flashed.
"Well, Lois ?" "Th' Master has His people 'mong them very lowest, that's not for such as yoh to speak to.

He knows 'em: men 'n' women starved 'n' drunk into jails 'n' work-houses, that 'd scorn to be cowardly or mean,--that shows God's kindness, through th' whiskey 'n' thievin', to th' orphints or--such as me.

Ther' 's things th' Master likes in them, 'n' it'll come right, it'll come right at last; they'll have a chance--somewhere." Margret did not speak; let the poor girl sob herself into quiet.

What had she to do with this gulf of pain and wrong?
Her own higher life was starved, thwarted.

Could it be that the blood of these her brothers called against HER from the ground?
No wonder that the huckster-girl sobbed, she thought, or talked heresy.