“Personally—­Miss Butterworth, excuse me—­I should rejoice to see them clothed and in their right mind, but the age of miracles is past.  We have to deal with the facts of to-day—­with things as they air.  It is possible, nay, for aught I know, it may be highly probable, that in other towns pauperism may fare better than it does with us.  It is to be remembered that Sevenoaks is itself poor, and its poverty becomes one of the factors of the problem which you have propounded to us.  The town of Buxton, our neighbor over here, pays taxes, let us say, of seven mills on the dollar; we pay seven mills on the dollar.  Buxton is rich; we are poor.  Buxton has few paupers; we have many.  Consequently, Buxton may maintain its paupers in what may almost be regarded as a state of affluence.  It may go as far as feather-beds and winter fires for the aged; nay, it may advance to some economical form of teeth-brushes, and still demand no more sacrifice from its people than is constantly demanded of us to maintain our poor in a humbler way.  Then there are certain prudential considerations—­certain, I might almost say, moral considerations—­which are to be taken into account.  It will never do, in a town like ours, to make pauperism attractive—­to make our pauper establishments comfortable asylums for idleness.  It must, in some way, be made to seem a hardship to go to the poor-house.”

“Well, Sevenoaks has taken care of that with a vengeance,” burst out Miss Butterworth.

“Excuse me, Miss Butterworth; let me repeat, that it must be made to seem a hardship to go to the poor-house.  Let us say that we have accomplished this very desirable result.  So far, so good.  Give our system whatever credit may belong to it, and still let us frankly acknowledge that we have suffering left that ought to be alleviated.  How much?  In what way?  Here we come into contact with another class of facts.  Paupers have less of sickness and death among them than any-other class in the community.  There are paupers in our establishment that have been there for twenty-five years—­a fact which, if it proves anything, proves that a large proportion of the wants of our present civilization are not only artificial in their origin, but harmful in their gratifications.  Our poor are compelled to go back nearer to nature—­to old mother nature—­and they certainly get a degree 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.