"Well, Sevenoaks has taken care of that with a vengeance," burst out
Miss Butterworth.

"Excuse me, Miss Butterworth; let me repeat, that it must be made to
seem a hardship to go to the poor-house. Let us say that we have
accomplished this very desirable result. So far, so good. Give our
system whatever credit may belong to it, and still let us frankly
acknowledge that we have suffering left that ought to be alleviated. How
much? In what way? Here we come into contact with another class of
facts. Paupers have less of sickness and death among them than any-other
class in the community. There are paupers in our establishment that have
been there for twenty-five years--a fact which, if it proves anything,
proves that a large proportion of the wants of our present civilization
are not only artificial in their origin, but harmful in their
gratifications. Our poor are compelled to go back nearer to nature--to
old mother nature--and they certainly get a degree of compensation for
it. It increases the expenses of the town, to be sure."

"Suppose we inquire of them," struck in Miss Butterworth again, "and
find out whether they would not rather be treated better and die
earlier."

"Paupers are hardly in a position to be consulted in that way,"
responded Mr. Snow, "and the alternative is one which, considering their
moral condition, they would have no right to entertain."

Miss Butterworth had sat through this rather desultory disquisition with
what patience she could command, breaking in upon it impulsively at
various points, and seen that it was drifting nowhere--at least, that it