"Don't say that, Mr. Alf. The 'Evening Pulpit' is like,--oh, it is like,--like,--like the throne of heaven! Who can be justified before it? Don't talk about its own merits, but say that you will have it done. It couldn't do any man any harm, and it would sell five hundred copies at once,--that is if it were done really con amore." Mr. Alf looked at her almost piteously, and shook his head. "The paper stands so high, it can't hurt it to do that kind of thing once. A woman is asking you, Mr. Alf. It is for my children that I am struggling. The thing is done every day of the week, with much less noble motives."

Say that you will have it done. It couldn't do any harm, and it would sell five hundred copies at once."
Mr. Alf shook his head.
"A woman is asking you, Mr. Alf. It is for my children that I am struggling. The thing is done every day of the week, with much less noble motives."
