My mood softens as I stroll toward home; the glow of the blacksmith's forge fascinates me; there at least is tremendous strength, which is also skill, welding in this most ancient art, blow upon blow, old-fashioned horseshoes, which I am told are the best. Past quaint old doorways my path leads; the sight of these, and of fine old-fashioned faces behind the windowpanes, revives my normal mood of affection. What other people would, in reverence to wishes of those long dead, give out the dole of widows' bread at Westminster, the daily dole at Winchester, or administer the Leicester charity at Warwick in the spirit in which it was meant? What other people would be honest enough to do it? There is a basic honesty here which recalls the old tale of Lincoln and the money he saved for many years, in order to give back the identical coins with which he had been entrusted.
As I enter my own domain, I observe once more that my gate does not latch properly; all this time, when I have found it left open, I have reproached Peter.
"Peter, you did not shut the gate."
"No, Miss," rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand.
"You must be more careful."
"Yes, Miss."
This has happened several times; today I found that no power could make it really latch, and I confided the fact to Peter.
"Yes, Miss, I knew it all along, Miss."
"But why—" there I stopped; I should rather never know why than to try to penetrate the wooden impenetrability of mind of the British serving-man. There are no "whys" in their vocabularies, no "whys" in their minds, only "thus and so." Things are as they are; it has always been so; theirs to stand under the atlas weight of caste and class, prejudice and custom, not theirs to reason why, when they are blamed by their masters for things not their fault; theirs to go on digging, very respectfully digging.
"Peter, will you get some one to fix it, please?"