of your coughing troubles me; each time I think of you I hear you
cough, and it makes me miserable. I met a child on the Common
yesterday, with hair your colour that fell back in thick curls from
a forehead almost as white as yours. Need I say that I kissed her?
Poor mite, she had such dirty clothes! She told me where she lives;
I must make inquiries about her mother. I might be able to help. The
existence of poverty is just beginning to dawn upon me. It is
strange how long one can live with one's eyes entirely closed to
certain things. In Italy I never thought about it; I sometimes felt
sorry for a beggar, but never quite believed in poverty as an actual
state; it merely seemed a rather disreputable but picturesque
profession. Here in England I have come face to face with
destitution; with hunger, labour, sweat, and barren joylessness. My
first thought was that money might set all this straight; I made
Uncle George laugh by seriously suggesting that I should give of my
superfluity to every cottage. Most people here visit the poor; I
went with Aunt Caroline at first and saw it all. I soon gave it up.
I cannot walk boldly into free human beings' homes and poke my nose
into their privacy; I cannot speak to them of the Lord's will and
persuade them that all is for the best. I can only give them money.
Little Mrs. Dobb, the rector's wife, thanked me with tears in her
eyes for a sum I placed in her hands yesterday. They say she does a
great deal of good, and if my money and her religion can work
together, by all means let it be so.

Meanwhile I ask myself every day: What is the use of Emilia
Fletcher? I really cannot see why I ever was born; my perceptions
are keen, but keener than my capabilities. I shall never be able to
do anything to help the world; yet I see so much that might be
done. I shall not ever be able to lead that life of simple truth,