it is, I stand and look at it, long for it, until weary of longing and standing with a sort of weight weighing me down, and my stays all rucking up to my neck, I crawl home.  There I am all alone; and I sit in the dark, on a wretched hard chair by the window; and I cry; and I watch the summer night and all the golden stars, and I cannot say what I think of during all these long and lonely hours; I only know that I cannot find energy to go to bed.  And I never sleep a whole night through; the cramp comes on so terribly that I jump up screaming.  Oh, Alice, how I hate him! When I think of it all I see how selfish men are; they never think of us—­they only think of themselves.  You would scarcely know me if you saw me now; all my complexion—­you know what a pretty complexion it was—­is all red and mottled.  When you saw me a fortnight ago I was all right:  it is extraordinary what a change has come about.  I think it was the journey and the excitement; there would be no concealing the truth now.  It is lucky I left Galway when I did.

’Mother gave me five pounds on leaving home.  My ticket cost nearly thirty shillings, a pound went in cabs and hotel expenses, and my breakfasts brought my bill up yesterday to two pounds—­I cannot think how, for I only pay sixteen shillings for my room—­and when it was paid I had only a few shillings left.  Will you, therefore, send the money you promised, if possible, by return of post? 
                                ’Always affectionately yours,
                                                      ‘MAY GOULD.’

The tears started to Alice’s eyes as she read the letter.  She did not consider if May might have spared her the physical details with which her letter abounded; she did not stay to think of the cause, of the result; for the moment she was numb to ideas and sensations that were not those of humble human pity for humble human suffering:  like the waters of a new baptism, pity made her pure and whole, and the false shame of an ancient world fell from her.  Leaning her head on her strong, well-shaped hand, she set to arranging her little plans for her friend’s help—­plans that were charming for their simplicity, their sweet homeliness.  The letter she had just read had come by the afternoon post, and if she were to send May the money she wrote for that evening, it would be necessary to go into Gort to register the letter.  Gort was two miles away; and if she asked for the carriage her mother might propose that the letters should be sent in by a special messenger.  This of course was impossible, and Alice, for the first time in her life found herself obliged to tell a deliberate lie.  For a moment her conscience stood at bay, but she accepted the inevitable and told her mother that she had some MSS. to register, and did not care to entrust them to other hands.  It was a consolation to know that eighteen pounds were safely despatched, but she was bitterly unhappy, and the fear that money might be wanting