...of suffering

With trembling hands she took the tin and opened it. She emptied it out over the table, some old and dirty notes, and a flood of silver and copper.
- Count it, he said.
She counted it laboriously, turning over the notes and the coins to make sure what they were.
- Twelve pounds, five shillings, and seven pence.
- I shall take, he said, I shall take eight pounds, and the shillings and pence.
- Take it all, Stephen. There may be doctors, hospitals, other troubles. Take it all. And take the Post Office Book - there is ten pounds in it - you must take that also.
- I have been saving that for your stove, he said.
- That cannot be helped, she said. And that other money, though we saved it for St Chad’s, I had meant it for your new black clothes, and a new black hat, and new white collars.
- That cannot be helped either. Let me see, I shall go…
- Tomorrow, she said. From Carisbrooke.
- I shall write to the Bishop now, and tell him I do not know how long I shall be gone.
He rose heavily to his feet, and went and stood before her. I am sorry I hurt you, he said. I shall go and pray in the church.
He went out of the door, and she watched him through the little window, walking slowly to the door of the church. Then she sat down at his table, and put her head on it, and was silent, with the patient suffering of black women, with the suffering of oxen, with the suffering of any that are mute.

[Cry, the Beloved Country, Paton, A.]