She was right, and I had nothing more to say except to wish
her success in her efforts.

It is curious that the strongest protests against the evils of
the village pubic, which one hears from village women, come
from those who are not themselves sufferers. Perhaps it is
not curious. Instinctively we hide our sores, bodily and
mental, from the public gaze.

Not long ago I was in a small rustic village in Wiltshire,
perhaps the most charming village I have seen in that country.
There was no inn or ale-house, and feeling very thirsty after
my long walk I went to a cottage and asked the woman I saw
there for a drink of milk. She invited me in, and spreading a
clean cloth on the table, placed a jug of new milk, a loaf,
and butter before me. For these good things she proudly
refused to accept payment. As she was a handsome young woman,
with a clear, pleasant voice, I was glad to have her sit there
and talk to me while I refreshed myself. Besides, I was in
search of information and got it from her during our talk. My
object in going to the village was to see a woman who, I had
been told, was living there. I now heard that her cottage was
close by, but unfortunately, while anxious to see her, I had
no excuse for calling.

"Do you think," said I to my young hostess, "that it would do
to tell her that I had heard something of her strange history
and misfortunes, and wished to offer her a little help? Is
she very poor?"