‘Pardon, sir, that is my bed.’
‘Ah, well, it is quite a model—quite a model. Why, we could dine here off the floor. What a nice little bit of carpet! What a nice little looking-glass! Oh, woman, how strong is the ruling passion! And bless me!’ he said, turning, as he made a still longer inspection, ‘why, here are flowers—positively flowers—and flowers cost a deal of money at this season of the year!’
‘Excuse me, sir, they are artificial.’
‘What! ah, yes, I see they are; but artificial flowers cost money.’
‘They cost me but very little. I made them myself, to sell, if possible, but I could not get a customer, and so I kept them to make the room a bit cheerful.’
‘Ah, I see you are one of the better class of workpeople—what I may call the aristocracy. I am awfully sorry. I should really have liked to have helped you, but our funds are small, and the amount of distress in the town is so large that we are obliged to be very particular—very particular indeed. It is a duty we owe to the parish and to the kind friends who have subscribed the money. They have the greatest confidence in us, and we must not abuse that confidence.’
‘Pray, sir, don’t think of it. If there are any poor people much worse off than myself, why, I pity ’em,’ said the poor woman.
‘Worse off, my good woman! Oh, the town is full of such! Look at your poor neighbours in the next room—a most shocking case; yet, in all their poverty, taking charge of a little waif that, somehow or other, came into their hands.’
The woman said nothing. She could have said a good deal, but she knew the family, and she also knew the value of peace and quietness.
‘Perhaps you will like to accept of this little tract,’ said the Vicar, who wished to show his sympathy, but who did not exactly know how. ‘It is prettily got up, and I rejoice to say it has been found greatly useful. You will, perhaps, read it with more interest as it was written by myself. And here is another, by my daughter, “On the Blessings of Poverty.”’