or woman, was abused and called evil
names.

"Sir! if instead of cursing the good-tempered beast or the God of
love above you, you had cursed the origin of such a spectacle as
you then were, your clothes covered with mud, your mouth full of
blaspheming, staggering about the road pulling at the mouth of your
horse--_strong drink_--you would have been a more reasonable being.

"What, sir, had the horse done to you? What had this poor woman
done to you? What, sir, had your heavenly Father done to you, that
you should fill your mouth with curses against us all? Your enemy
was none of us, but that viper, strong drink.

"O sir! shun your enemy I beseech you. I am a woman who has had no
children, but, sir, if I had been the mother of so strong and
good-looking a man as you, it would have broken my heart to see you
lying there muddy and cursing, a poorer sight under God's sky than
the poor dumb beast that bore you.--Your obedient servant,

Ann Hilton."

The woman folded and fastened the letter and then wiped her eyes with
the corner of her apron. She looked round the room as if to see that
everything was done and went to shut the door for the night. She looked
out into the lane. The cottage a little lower down had a light in the
window and here and there lights shewed along the road. The night when
one can no longer work out of doors matters little in the country, yet
the ample stillness with distant rustling sounds pleased her and she
lingered. Two young men carrying shapeless bundles on their shoulders
wished her good-night as they passed home from work. Everyone seemed to
have finished with out of doors. Even the cat from the yard rubbed
against her as it ran into the house, stealthily and crouching as if in
fear. She turned indoors and lit the lamp, fastened the door with a
wooden bolt and drew the blind before the diamond-paned window.

CHAPTER III

Anne Hilton was one of those women who have so little knowledge of the
practical thoughts of those round about them, that they pass their lives
half-disliked, partly respected, and mostly avoided. She had lived alone
now for two years, her father, whom she had nursed, having died of the
saddest human malady. He had ("as anyone might have had with such a
daughter," declared the neighbours), harboured a great contempt for
women, and though, being uninclined to tread the heights himself,