A Singular Life by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward

Bayard re-read this message thoughtfully. He could hardly have told why it perplexed him. Up and down the shores and streets of Windover no cry of misery or of guilt had ever yet lifted itself to him in vain. Such appeals were common enough. Often it would happen that a stranger would stop him in the street, and use much the same naïve language: "I hear when you talk to folks they stop drinking. I wish you'd talk to me. " Contrary to his custom in such matters, he showed this slip of paper to Mrs. Granite.

"Mr. Bayard, sir," she said, with that prompt feminine fear which sometimes takes the place of reliable good sense, "don't you go a step!"