Renewing　then　my　courage；　and　gathering　my　feeble　remains　of　strength；　I　pushed　on。　I　reached　the　house；　and　knocked　at　the　kitchen…door。　An　old　woman　opened：　I　asked　was　this　the　parsonage？

“Yes。”

“Was　the　clergyman　in？”

“No。”

“Would　he　be　in　soon？”

“No；　he　was　gone　from　home。”

“To　a　distance？”

“Not　so　far—happen　three　mile。　He　had　been　called　away　by　the　sudden　death　of　his　father：　he　was　at　Marsh　End　now；　and　would　very　likely　stay　there　a　fortnight　longer。”

“Was　there　any　lady　of　the　house？”

“Nay；　there　was　naught　but　her；　and　she　was　housekeeper；”　and　of　her；　reader；　I　could　not　bear　to　ask　the　relief　for　want　of　which　I　was　sinking；　I　could　not　yet　beg；　and　again　I　crawled　away。

Once　more　I　took　off　my　handkerchief—once　more　I　thought　of　the　cakes　of　bread　in　the　little　shop。　Oh；　for　but　a　crust！　for　but　one　mouthful　to　allay　the　pang　of　famine！　Instinctively　I　turned　my　face　again　to　the　village；　I　found　the　shop　again；　and　I　went　in；　and　though　others　were　there　besides　the　woman　I　ventured　the　request—“Would　she　give　me　a　roll　for　this　handkerchief？”

She　looked　at　me　with　evident　suspicion：　“Nay；　she　never　sold　stuff　i’　that　way。”

Almost　desperate；　I　asked　for　half　a　cake；　she　again　refused。　“How　could　she　tell　where　I　had　got　the　handkerchief？”　she　said。

“Would　she　take　my　gloves？”

“No！　what　could　she　do　with　them？”

Reader；　it　is　not　pleasant　to　dwell　on　thes