Mercy, shyly looking at him, saw a new
expression in his eyes--an expression which recalled her first
remembrance of him as nothing had recalled it yet. "I had no
idea," he resumed, "of what the life of a farm-laborer really
was, in some parts of England, until I undertook the rector's
duties. Never before had I seen such dire wretchedness as I saw
in the cottages. Never before had I met with such noble patience
under suffering as I found among the people. The martyrs of old
could endure, and die. I asked myself if they could endure, and
_live_, like the martyrs whom I saw round me?--live, week after
week, month after month, year after year, on the brink of
starvation; live, and see their pining children growing up round
them, to work and want in their turn; live, with the poor man's
parish prison to look to as the end, when hunger and labor have
done their worst! Was God's beautiful earth made to hold such
misery as this? I can hardly think of it, I can hardly speak of
it, even now, with dry eyes!"
His head sank on his breast. He waited--mastering his emotion
before he spoke again. Now, at last, she knew him once more. Now
he was the man, indeed, whom she had expected to see.
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