“I have very little appetite this morning,” was answered, with an effort to smile and look cheerful.

“Perhaps you’d rather have tea.  Shall I give you a cup?” And Mrs. Lowe laid her hand on the teapot.

“You may, if you please.”  Mary felt an inward weakness that she knew was occasioned by lack of food, and so accepted the offer of tea, in the hope that it might prove more palatable than the coffee.  It had the merit of being hot, and not of decidedly offensive flavor; but it was little more in strength than sweetened water, whitened with milk.  She drank off the cup, and then left the table, going, with her still wet feet and skirts to the sewing-room.

“Rather a dainty young lady,” she heard Mrs. Lowe remark to the waiter, as she left the room.

The stitch in Mary’s side caught her again, as she went up stairs, and almost took her breath away; and it was some time after she resumed her work, before she could bear her body up straight on the left side.

In her damp feet and skirts, on a chilly and rainy October day, Mary Carson sat working until nearly three o’clock, without rest or refreshment of any kind; and when at last called to dinner, the disordered condition of the table, and the cold, unpalatable food set before her, extinguished, instead of stimulating her sickly appetite.  She made a feint of eating, to avoid attracting attention, and then returned to the sewing-room, the air of which, as she re-entered, seemed colder than that of the hall and dining-room.

The stitch in her side was not so bad during the afternoon; but the dull pain was heavier, and accompanied by a sickening sensation.  Still, she worked on, cutting, fitting and sewing with a patience and industry, that, considering her actual condition, was surprising.  Mrs. Lowe was in and out of the room frequently, overlooking the work, and marking its progress.  Beyond the producing power of her seamstress, she had no thought of that individual.  It did not come within the range of her questionings whether she were well or ill—­weak or strong—­exhausted by prolonged labor, or in the full possession of bodily vigor.  To her, she was simply an agent through which a certain service was obtained; and beyond that service, she was nothing.  The extent of her consideration was limited by the progressive creation of dresses for her children.  As that went on, her thought dwelt with Miss Carson; but penetrated no deeper.  She might be human; might have an individual life full of wants, yearnings, and tender sensibilities; might be conscious of bodily or mental suffering—­but, if so, it was in a region so remote from that in which Mrs. Lowe dwelt, that no intelligence thereof reached her.

At six o’clock, Mary put up her work, and, taking her bonnet and shawl, went down stairs, intending to return home.

“You’re not going?” said Mrs. Lowe, meeting her on the way.  She spoke in some surprise.