e of compensation for
it. It increases the expenses of the town, to be sure."

"Suppose we inquire of them," struck in Miss Butterworth again, "and
find out whether they would not rather be treated better and die
earlier."

"Paupers are hardly in a position to be consulted in that way,"
responded Mr. Snow, "and the alternative is one which, considering their
moral condition, they would have no right to entertain."

Miss Butterworth had sat through this rather desultory disquisition with
what patience she could command, breaking in upon it impulsively at
various points, and seen that it was drifting nowhere--at least, that it
was not drifting toward the object of her wishes. Then she took up the
burden of talk, and carried it on in her very direct way.

"All you say is well enough, I suppose," she began, "but I don't stop to
reason about it, and I don't wish to. Here is a lot of human beings
that are treated like brutes--sold every year to the lowest bidder, to
be kept. They go hungry, and naked, and cold. They are in the hands of a
man who has no more blood in his heart than there is in a turnip, and we
pretend to be Christians, and go to church, and coddle ourselves with
comforts, and pay no more attention to them than we should if their
souls had gone where their money went. I tell you it's a sin and a
shame, and I know it. I feel it. And there's a gentleman among 'em, and
his little boy, and they must be taken out of that place, or treated
better in it. I've made up my mind to that, and if the men of Sevenoaks
don't straighten matters on that horrible old hill, then they're just no
men at all."

Mr. Snow smiled a calm, self-respectful smile, that said, as plainly as
words could say: "Oh! I know women: they are amiably impulsive, but
impracticable."

"Have you ever been there?" inquired Miss Butterworth, sharply.

"Yes, I've been there."

"And conscience forbid!" broke in Mrs. Snow, "that he should go again,
and bring home what he brought home that time. It took me the longest
time to get them out of the house!"

"Mrs. Snow! my dear! you forget that we have a stranger present."

"Well, I don't forget those strangers, anyway!"

The three Misses Snow tittered, and looked at one another, but were
immediately solemnized by a glance from their father.

Mrs. Snow, having found her tongue--a characteristically lively and
emphatic one--went on to say:--

"I think Miss Butterworth is right. It's a burning shame