Mrs. Lowe was ready for her seamstress.  There were the materials to make half a dozen dresses for Angela and Grace, and one of the little Misses was called immediately, and the work of selecting and cutting a body pattern commenced, Mrs. Lowe herself superintending the operation, and embarrassing Mary at the start with her many suggestions.  Nearly an hour had been spent in this way, when the breakfast bell rang.  It was after eight o’clock.  Without saying anything to Mary, Mrs. Lowe and the child they had been fitting, went down stairs.  This hour had been one of nervous excitement to Mary Carson.  Her cheeks were hot—­burning as if a fire shone upon them—­but her cold hands, and wet, colder feet, sent the blood in every returning circle, robbed of warmth to the disturbed heart.

It was past nine o’clock when a servant called Mary to breakfast.  As she arose from her chair, she felt a sharp stitch in her left side; so sharp, that she caught her breath in half inspirations, two or three times, before venturing on a full inflation of the lungs.  She was, at the same time, conscious of an uncomfortable tightness across the chest.  The nausea, and loathing of food, which had given place soon after her arrival at Mrs. Lowe’s to a natural craving of the stomach for food, had returned again, and she felt, as she went down stairs, that unless something to tempt the appetite were set before her, she could not take a mouthful.  There was nothing to tempt the appetite.  The table at which the family had eaten remained just as they had left it—­soiled plates and scraps of broken bread and meat; partly emptied cups and saucers; dirty knives and forks, spread about in confusion.—­Amid all this, a clean plate had been set for the seamstress; and Mrs. Lowe awaited her, cold and dignified, at the head of the table.

“Coffee or tea, Miss Carson?”

“Coffee.”

It was a lukewarm decoction of spent coffee grounds, flavored with tin, and sweetened to nauseousness.  Mary took a mouthful and swallowed it—­put the cup again to her lips; but they resolutely refused to unclose and admit another drop.  So she sat the cup down.

“Help yourself to some of the meat.”  And Mrs. Lowe pushed the dish, which, nearly three-quarters of an hour before had come upon the table bearing a smoking sirloin, across to the seamstress.  Now, lying beside the bone, and cemented to the dish by a stratum of chilled gravy, was the fat, stringy end of the steak.  The sight of it was enough for Miss Carson; and she declined the offered delicacy.

“There’s bread.”  She took a slice from a fresh baker’s loaf; and spread it with some oily-looking butter that remained on one of the butter plates.  It was slightly sour.  By forcing herself, she swallowed two or three mouthfuls.  But the remonstrating palate would accept no more.

“Isn’t the coffee good?” asked Mrs. Lowe, with a sharp quality in her voice, seeing that Miss Carson did not venture upon a second mouthful.