"
The widow could hardly conceal her vexation and disappointment. "Now,
dear heart, holy father!" cried she, "is there not a rich body in the
place, that you come for charity to a poor old widow like me, that am
in a case rather to borrow myself than to lend to others?"
"Can you spare us a blanket?" said the monk. "These poor strangers
have been out in the storm, remember."
The widow started. "What meddling busybody told him that the Baroness
gave me a new blanket at Michaelmas?" thought she; but at last, very
unwillingly, she went to an inner room to fetch a blanket from her
bed.
"They shan't have the new one, that's flat," muttered the widow; and
she drew out the old one and began to fold it up. But though she had
made much of its thinness and insufficiency to the Baroness, she was
so powerfully affected at parting with it, that all its good qualities
came strongly to her mind.
"It's a very suitable size," she said to herself, "and easy for my
poor old arms to shake or fold. With careful usage, it would last for
years yet; but who knows how two wandering bodies that have been
tramping miles through the storm may kick about in their sleep? And
who knows if they're decent folk at all? likely enough they're two
hedge birds, who have imposed a pitiful tale on the good fathers, and
never slept under anything finer than a shock of straw in their
lives."
The more the good woman thought of this, the more sure she felt that
such was the case, and the less willing she became to lend her blanket
to "a couple of good-for-nothing tramps.
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