villy: but it
shut me out. If she had held it open a little longer, I believe I should
have begged a piece of bread; for I was now brought low.

I could not bear to return to the sordid village, where, besides, no
prospect of aid was visible. I should have longed rather to deviate to a
wood I saw not far off, which appeared in its thick shade to offer
inviting shelter; but I was so sick, so weak, so gnawed with nature's
cravings, instinct kept me roaming round abodes where there was a chance
of food. Solitude would be no solitude--rest no rest--while the vulture,
hunger, thus sank beak and talons in my side.

I drew near houses; I left them, and came back again, and again I
wandered away: always repelled by the consciousness of having no claim to
ask--no right to expect interest in my isolated lot. Meantime, the
afternoon advanced, while I thus wandered about like a lost and starving
dog. In crossing a field, I saw the church spire before me: I hastened
towards it. Near the churchyard, and in the middle of a garden, stood a
well-built though small house, which I had no doubt was the parsonage. I
remembered that strangers who arrive at a place where they have no
friends, and who want employment, sometimes apply to the clergyman for
introduction and aid. It is the clergyman's function to help--at least
with advice--those who wished to help themselves. I seemed to have
something like a right to seek counsel here. 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