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Renewing then my courage； and gathering my feeble remains of strength； I pushed on。 I reached the house； and knocked at the kitchen…door。 An old woman opened： I asked was this the parsonage？
“Yes。”
“Was the clergyman in？”
“No。”
“Would he be in soon？”
“No； he was gone from home。”
“To a distance？”
“Not so far—happen three mile。 He had been called away by the sudden death of his father： he was at Marsh End now； and would very likely stay there a fortnight longer。”
“Was there any lady of the house？”
“Nay； there was naught but her； and she was housekeeper；” and of her； reader； I could not bear to ask the relief for want of which I was sinking； I could not yet beg； and again I crawled away。
Once more I took off my handkerchief—once more I thought of the cakes of bread in the little shop。 Oh； for but a crust！ for but one mouthful to allay the pang of famine！ Instinctively I turned my face again to the village； I found the shop again； and I went in； and though others were there besides the woman I ventured the request—“Would she give me a roll for this handkerchief？”
She looked at me with evident suspicion： “Nay； she never sold stuff i’ that way。”
Almost desperate； I asked for half a cake； she again refused。 “How could she tell where I had got the handkerchief？” she said。
“Would she take my gloves？”
“No！ what could she do with them？”
Reader； it is not pleasant to dwell on thes
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