WOMAN'8 WORK TME LOB3ELY WOMAH Not Wanted I— The Little Giey Lady— How she Occupied her Time— Good Work to be Done did she confide. Sometimes a villager, in In all the world there is no figure so poig- nantly pathetic as that of the lonely woman — the woman who isn't wanted. And in all the world there is no tragedy — for it is a tragedy — that excites so little sympathy ; for the comprehension of the majority of men and women who have work to do, and beheve themselves to be part of the universal scheme, does not extend to the agony of mind of the lonely woman, whose lack of iriagination is her only real burden. " NOT WANTED 1 " The lonely woman is a confirmed pessimist. a martyr to her own foolish doubts. Her outlook on life is so cramped and narrow, and her self-effacement so complete, that she cannot conceive a reason for her existence. Often she hves the life of a recluse, hiding from the Hght of a workaday world as though every glance of her fellow-creatures imphed scorn and contumely. " I am not wanted ! " The brand on her forehead is of her own searing. " I am not wanted " is in her downcast and mirthless eyes, for the sense of humour is the first of her faculties that the lonely woman allows to die. " I am nothing to the world ; the world can go on very well without me." These are her thoughts ; they constitute her martyrdom, and yet she wonders why the world cannot understand and sympathise accordingly. The reason is simple enough : In the creating Df things, no allowance was made for the lonely woman ; somewhere in the scheme there is a niche for the labours of every woman, for it is given to every woman — as it is given to every man — to make her fellows happier and wiser for her existence. " But what can 1 do ?" asks the lonely woman plaintively. " Nobody wants me, nobody seeks me. I have no natural favours to commend me either to man or woman. I live and suffer in sohtude ; my world ends at the garden gate. I don't know the meaning of friendship." THE LITTLE GREY WOMAX The sketch that follows concerns the life of one little lonely woman who hved in a north-country village ; it may suggest many things to many lonely women all over the world. She was just an ordinary' woman, so ordinary that in the crudeness of their speech the women of the village described her as " faal," or ugly ; the men, when they spoke of her, shrugged their shoulders and smiled contemptuously. She lived in an ivy-covered cottage on the outskirts of the village, and only in the flowers of her garden passmg the garden gate, would glance inquiringly at the pathetic little figure bend- ing over the plants, but always she mis- construed the meaning of the glance. Solitude breeds suspicion. She was known to have an income ; the villagers supposed that her parents were far-seeing people. They must have realised that this daughter with the prematurely grey hair and watery-blue eyes framed in spectacles could never even hope to marry, and so they provided for her. Perhaps, in thus analysing the situation, they forgot to be generous. The Little Grey Woman, as they called her, had re- mained with an invalid mother long after the other members of the family left to find mates for themselves. She remained behind long after the bloom of youth had left her cheeks, and it may be she became infected with the spirit of fretfulness and irritability which is invariably associated with a sick- room. HOW SHE OCCUPIED HER TIME When she came to the village, the Little Grey Woman came quietly and without the slightest ostentation. Her needs were few, and from her orders the village tradesmen gathered no knowledge of her Hfe. On the Sabbath she attended service at the church, but gave no encouragement to those who were inchned to break down the barrier ot reserve. She distrusted them. She could not conceive that she and they had anything in common. Pecuniarily, they might not be so well placed as herself ; but they had friends and husbands, and wives and chil- dren. And they were happy, while she was lonely. They knew she was lonely, and she feared their pity more than her lonehness. For two years she lived in that village without allowing a single person to cross the threshold of her cottage, and she aged so quickly that the mirror must have mocked her. One day a cliild threw its ball over the hedge surrounding her garden, and then knocked at the door timidly, and with fear in its eyes. She took the child by the hand, recovered the lost ball, and sent the child home happy and contented. The next morning the child came again to the door of the cottage, and gravely offered the Little Grey Woman a bunch of honeysuckle. The Little Grey Woman thanked the child, closed the door, and sat down to weep. She felt lonelier than ever. A few days later she found that a boy of four or five had wormed his way through the hedge, and was enioying
