Anne Hilton set off after the evening milking to visit a bed-ridden woman of her acquaintance who lived in a cottage in one of the numerous by-lanes intersecting the now bared fields.  She was a woman who had lain many years in the kitchen, whose narrow, hot space was all she saw of the world.  She was not a cheerful invalid, but peevish and querulous.  The irritation with which she always lived, waking from sleep to be at once aware of it, and to know no pause during her waking hours, had worn away a temperament which might almost have been gay.  At very rare intervals Anne had heard her laugh, and the laugh had such a note of gaiety in it that she surmised the nature that had been, as it were, knawed thin by this never-sleeping worm.  It was pity for something imprisoned and smothered which made Anne a steadfast friend to the unhappy woman, whose other friends had long tired of her incessant complaints and down-cast mind.

Elizabeth Richardson had never any hesitation in expressing her opinions, and Anne had scarcely seated herself by the bed of the unfortunate woman, whose harrowed face told of the torment within, than she began to ask questions of the disgrace of Jane Evans, whom, she had heard, was to have a child to crown all.  But contrary to Anne’s expectations the bed-ridden woman was friendly to the girl.  The habit of neglect and scarcely-veiled impatience with which she had for many years been treated, and of which she had been fully and silently aware, had produced in her tortured mind an exasperated rebellion against the opinions of her neighbours, who were unable to see anything beyond their own comfort.  She knew that she had so much the worst of it; that even attending perfunctorily to another’s human necessity was not so hard a task as to be there day after day in the company of a pain which never ceased, and beneath whose increasing shadow the world had slowly darkened.

“They’re all afraid of the trouble to themselves about the girl,” she said, with her bitter intonation.  “They’re afraid they’ll be called on to do something for her sooner or later.”

She turned over with a groan, lying still and worried.

“Have you tried a bag of hot salt?” asked Anne, after a few minutes’ silence.

“Yes!  I tried once or twice,” replied the woman, “but you know it’s a bit of extra trouble, and no one likes that.”

“If you could tell me where to get a bit of red flannel I’ll make one for you now,” said Anne.

“The bag’s here,” said the woman, her face drawn and her mouth gasping.  She tried to feel under the pillow.

“Lie you still.  I’ll get it,” said Anne.  She drew out a bag of red flannel, evidently the remnant of an old flannel petticoat, for the tuck still remained like a grotesque attempt at ornament across the middle of the bag.  The salt slid heavily to one end as Anne drew it out.

“The oven’s still warm,” she said opening the door and putting her hand inside.  “I’ll just slip it in for a few minutes.”