AND now Alice felt that she was on the wide world alone, with her child--no longer to be protected, but to protect; and after the first few days of agony, a new spirit, not indeed of hope, but of endurance, passed within her. Her solitary wanderings, with God her only guide, had tended greatly to elevate and confirm her character. She felt a strong reliance on His mysterious mercy--she felt, too, the responsibility of a mother. Thrown for so many months upon her own resources, even for the bread of life, her intellect was unconsciously sharpened, and a habit of patient fortitude had strengthened a nature originally clinging and femininely soft. She resolved to pass into some other county, for she could neither bear the thoughts that haunted the neighbourhood around her, nor think, without a loathing horror, of the possibility of her father’s return. Accordingly, one day, she renewed her wanderings--and after a week’s travel, arrived at a small village. Charity is so common in England, it so spontaneously springs up everywhere, like the good seed by the roadside, that she had rarely wanted the bare necessaries of existence. And her humble manner, and sweet, well-tuned voice, so free from the professional whine of mendicancy, had usually its charm for the sternest. So she generally obtained enough to buy bread and a night’s lodging, and, if sometimes she failed, she could bear hunger, and was not afraid of creeping into some shed, or, when by the sea-shore, even into some sheltering cavern. Her child throve too--for God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb! But now, so far as physical privation went, the worst was over. It so happened that as Alice was drawing herself wearily along to the entrance of the village which was to bound her day’s journey, she was met by a lady, past middle age, in whose countenance compassion was so visible, that Alice would not beg, for she had a strange delicacy or pride, or whatever it may be called, and rather begged of the stern than of those who looked kindly at her--she did not like to lower herself in the eyes of the last. The lady stopped. “My poor girl, where are you going?” “Where God pleases, madam,” said Alice. “Humph! and is that your own child?--you are almost a child yourself.” “It is mine, madam,” said Alice, gazing fondly at the infant; “it is my all!” The lady’s voice faltered. “Are you married?” she asked. “Married!--Oh, no, madam!” replied Alice, innocently, yet without blushing, for she never knew that she had done wrong in loving Maltravers. The lady drew gently back, but not in horror--no, in still deeper compassion; for that lady had virtue, and she knew that the faults of her sex are sufficiently punished to permit Virtue to pity them without a sin. “I am sorry for it,” she said, however, with greater gravity. “Are you travelling to seek the father?” “Ah, madam! I shall never see him again!” And Alice wept.