impossibility. She had decided
within her own breast that it was so, though she did not know that
she had come to such decision. "I wish you to take me at my word, Mrs
Crawley," continued Lady Lufton. "What can we do for you? We know
that you are distressed."

"Yes;--we are distressed."

"And we know how cruel circumstances have been to you. Will you not
forgive me for being plain?"

"I have nothing to forgive," said Mrs. Crawley.

"Lady Lufton means," said Mrs. Robarts, "that in asking you to talk
openly to her of your affairs, she wishes you to remember that-- I
think you know what we mean," said Mrs. Robarts, knowing very well
herself what she did mean, but not knowing at all how to express
herself.

"Lady Lufton is very kind," said Mrs. Crawley, "and so are you, Mrs
Robarts. I know how good you both are, and for how much it behoves me
to be grateful." These words were very cold, and the voice in which
they were spoken was very cold. They made Lady Lufton feel that it
was beyond her power to proceed with the work of her mission in
its intended spirit. It is ever so much easier to proffer kindness
graciously than to receive it with grace. Lady Lufton had intended
to say, "Let us be women together;--women bound by humanity, and not
separated by rank, and let us open our hearts freely. Let us see how
we may be of comfort to each other." And could she have succeeded in
this, she would have spread out her little plans of succour with so
loving a hand that she would have conquered the woman before her. But
the suffering spirit cannot descend from its dignity of reticence. It
has a nobility of its own, made sacred by many tears, by the flowing
of streams of blood from unseen wounds, which cannot descend from its
dais to receive pity and kindness. A consciousness of undeserved woe
produces a grandeur of its own, with which the high-souled sufferer
will not easily part. Baskets full of eggs, pounds of eleemosynary
butter, quarters of given pork, even second-hand clothing from the
wardrobe of some richer sister,--even money, unsophisticated money,
she could accept. She had learned to know that it was a portion
of her allotted misery to take such things,--for the sake of her
children and her husband,--and to be thankful for them. She did take
them, and was thankful; and in the taking she submitted herself to
the rod of cruel circumstances; but she could not even yet bring
herself to accept spoken pity from a stranger, an