The Monday morning on which Mary Carson was to appear “bright and early” at the dwelling of Mrs. Lowe, came round, but it was far from being a bright morning.  An easterly storm had set in during the night; the rain was falling fast, and the wind driving gustily.  A chilliness crept through the frame of Miss Carson as she arose from her bed, soon after the dull light began to creep in drearily through the half closed shutters of her room.  The air, even within her chamber, felt cold, damp, and penetrating.  From her window a steeple clock was visible.  She glanced at the face, and saw that it was nearly seven.

“So late as that!” she exclaimed, in a tone of surprise, and commenced dressing herself in a hurried, nervous way.  By the time she was ready to leave her room, she was exhausted by her own excited haste.

“Mary,” said a kind voice, calling to her as she was moving down stairs, “you are not going out this morning.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” she answered, in a cheerful voice.  “I have an engagement for to-day.”

“But the storm is too severe.  It’s raining and blowing dreadfully.  Wait an hour or two until it holds up a little.”

“Oh dear, no, Mrs. Grant!  I can’t stop for a trifle of rain.”

“It’s no trifle of rain this morning, let me tell you, Mary.  You’ll get drenched to the skin.  Now don’t go out, child!”

“I must indeed, Mrs. Grant.  The lady expects me, and I cannot disappoint her.”  And Miss Carson kept on down stairs.

“But you are not going without something on your stomach, Mary.  Wait just for a few minutes until I can get you a cup of tea.  The water is boiling.”

Mary did not wait.  It was already past the time when she was expected at Mrs. Lowe’s; and besides feeling a little uncomfortable on that account, she had a slight sense of nausea, with its attendant aversion to food.  So, breaking away from Mrs. Grant’s concerned importunities, she went forth into the cold driving storm.  It so happened, that she had to go for nearly the entire distance of six or seven blocks, almost in the teeth of the wind, which blew a gale, drenching her clothes in spite of all efforts to protect herself by means of an umbrella.  Her feet and ankles were wet by the time she reached Mrs. Lowe’s, and the lower parts of her dress and under-clothing saturated to a depth of ten or twelve inches.

“I expected you half an hour ago,” said the lady, in a coldly polite way, as Miss Carson entered her presence.

“The morning was dark and I overslept myself,” was the only reply.

Mrs. Lowe did not remark upon the condition of Mary’s clothing and feet.  That was a matter of no concern to her.  It was a seamstress, not a human being, that was before her—­a machine, not thing of sensation.  So she conducted her to a room in the third story, fronting east, against the cloudy and misty windows of which the wind and rain were driving.  There was a damp, chilly feeling in the air of this room.  Mrs. Lowe had a knit shawl drawn around her shoulders; but Mary, after removing her bonnet and cloak, had no external protection for her chest beyond the closely fitting body of her merino dress.  Her feet and hands felt very cold, and she had that low shuddering, experienced when one is inwardly chilled.