The more I see, the
more sure I am that it does not matter why people do the right thing
so long only as they do it, nor why they may have done the wrong if
they have done it. The result depends upon the thing done and the
motive goes for nothing. I have read somewhere, but cannot remember
where, that in some country district there was once a great scarcity
of food, during which the poor suffered acutely; many indeed
actually died of starvation, and all were hard put to it. In one
village, however, there was a poor widow with a family of young
children, who, though she had small visible means of subsistence,
still looked well-fed and comfortable, as also did all her little
ones. "How," everyone asked, "did they manage to live?" It was plain
they had a secret, and it was equally plain that it could be no good
one; for there came a harried, hunted look over the poor woman's
face if anyone alluded to the way in which she and hers throve when
others starved; the family, moreover, were sometimes seen out at
unusual hours of the night, and evidently brought things home, which
could hardly have been honestly come by. They knew they were under
suspicion, and, being hitherto of excellent name, it made them very
unhappy, for it must be confessed that they believed what they did
to be uncanny if not absolutely wicked; nevertheless, in spite of this
they throve, and kept their strength when all their neighbours were
pinched.
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