There was a growing excitement about Mrs. Wykoff, united with an air of so much seriousness, that Mrs. Lowe began to feel a pressure of alarm.  Selfish, cold-hearted and indifferent to all in a social grade beneath her, this lady was not quite ready to stand up in the world’s face as one without common humanity.  The way in which Mrs. Wykoff was presenting the case of Miss Carson on that stormy morning, did not reflect very creditably upon her; and the thought—­“How would this sound, if told of me?”—­did not leave her in the most comfortable frame of mind.

“I hope she’s not sick.  I’m sure the thought of her being wet never crossed my mind.  Why didn’t she speak of it herself?  She knew her own condition, and that there was fire in the kitchen.  I declare! some people act in a manner perfectly incomprehensible.”  Mrs. Lowe spoke now in a disturbed manner.

“Miss Carson should have looked to this herself, and she was wrong in not doing so—­very wrong,” said Mrs. Wykoff.  “But she is shrinking and sensitive to a fault—­afraid of giving trouble or intruding herself. It is our place, I think, when strangers come into our houses, no matter under what circumstances, to assume that they have a natural delicacy about asking for needed consideration, and to see that all things due to them are tendered.  I cannot see that any exceptions to this rule are admissible.  To my thinking, it applies to a servant, a seamstress, or a guest, each in a just degree, with equal force.  Not that I am blameless in this thing.  Far from it.  But I acknowledge my fault whenever it is seen, and repenting, resolve to act more humanely in the future.”

“Where does Miss Carson live?” asked Mrs. Lowe.  “I came to make the inquiry.”

“As I feel rather troubled about her,” answered Mrs. Wykoff, “I will go to see her this afternoon.”

“I wish you would.  What you have said makes me feel a little uncomfortable.  I hope there is nothing wrong; or, at least, that she is only slightly indisposed.  It was thoughtless in me.  But I was so much interested in the work she was doing that I never once thought of her personally.”

“Did she come before breakfast?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Excuse me; but at what time did she get her breakfast?”

There was just a little shrinking in the manner of Mrs. Wykoff; as she answered—­

“Towards nine o’clock.”

“Did she eat anything?”

“Well, no, not much in particular.  I thought her a little dainty. 
She took coffee; but it didn’t just appear to suit her appetite. 
Then I offered her tea, and she drank a cup.”

“But didn’t take any solid food?”

“Very little.  She struck me as a dainty Miss.”

“She is weak and delicate, Mrs. Lowe, as any one who looks into her face may see.  Did you give her a lunch towards noon?”

“A lunch!  Why no!” Mrs. Lowe elevated her brows.