The horse, dragged everywhere by the efforts of the young man to gain a footing, was rewarded for its patience when its master at last, by my help, regained his feet, by severe kicks in the belly, and I, a poor 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, he feared his daughter’s uprightness of character, he had never lost an occasion of pouring scorn on her unpractical ways.

“Can you take it home for me, James?” would ask a neighbour, handing up a case of eggs to the cart, where James sat preparing to leave the market.