her?  Poor mite, she had such dirty clothes!  She told me where she lives; I must make inquiries about her mother.  I might be able to help.  The existence of poverty is just beginning to dawn upon me.  It is strange how long one can live with one’s eyes entirely closed to certain things.  In Italy I never thought about it; I sometimes felt sorry for a beggar, but never quite believed in poverty as an actual state; it merely seemed a rather disreputable but picturesque profession.  Here in England I have come face to face with destitution; with hunger, labour, sweat, and barren joylessness.  My first thought was that money might set all this straight; I made Uncle George laugh by seriously suggesting that I should give of my superfluity to every cottage.  Most people here visit the poor; I went with Aunt Caroline at first and saw it all.  I soon gave it up.  I cannot walk boldly into free human beings’ homes and poke my nose into their privacy; I cannot speak to them of the Lord’s will and persuade them that all is for the best.  I can only give them money.  Little Mrs. Dobb, the rector’s wife, thanked me with tears in her eyes for a sum I placed in her hands yesterday.  They say she does a great deal of good, and if my money and her religion can work together, by all means let it be so.

Meanwhile I ask myself every day:  What is the use of Emilia Fletcher?  I really cannot see why I ever was born; my perceptions are keen, but keener than my capabilities.  I shall never be able to do anything to help the world; yet I see so much that might be done.  I shall not ever be able to lead that life of simple truth, of absolute fidelity to high-set aims, which I yet believe it must be in every man’s power to live.  Which is the more to be despised—­he who perceives a higher path and lacks the resolution to adhere to it, or he who trots along the common road out of sheer short-sightedness?  Clearly the first.  I am a worm. (You have probably heard this before.)

Well, I am not a very gay companion; I shall leave you for to-day, sweetest.

Emilia.

LETTER IX.

Sunday evening.

I have made a fool of myself; and yet I am happier to-night than I have been this many a day, for I have at least shown myself honest.  I did it foolishly, thoughtlessly, I know, and yet,—­well, I don’t regret it.

I went to church this morning for the last time.  I went with Aunt Caroline, as usual, but, as I knelt beside her on entering the pew, I was seized with a great horror of myself.  There was I, hypocrite, with silent lips and silent heart, feigning to share in the simple fervour around me, denying my own faith, insulting that of another.  However, I sat and knelt and stood and went through all the forms along with the rest.  The sunlight streamed in at the windows, and lay coloured on the dusty floor, on bowed head and Sunday bonnet; through one little white window,