And these days, in spite of the sorrow hovering over her charge, Martha never found wholly unhappy.  They constantly reminded her of the good times at Oakdale when she used to bring in her young mistress’s breakfast.  She could recall the dainty, white egg-shell china, the squat silver service bearing the Carnavon arms, and the film of lace which she used to throw around her ladyship’s shoulders, lifting her hair to give it room.  The butler would bring the tray to the door, and Martha would carry it herself to the bedside, where she would be met with the cry, “Must I get up?” or the more soothing greeting of, “Oh, you good Martha —­well, give me my wrapper!”

The delicate porcelain and heirloom silver were missing now, and so was the filmy lace, but the tired mistress, could sleep as long as she pleased, thank Heaven! and the same loving care be given her.  And the meal could be as nicely served, even though the thick cup cost but a penny and the tea was poured from an earthen pot kept hot on the stove.

Martha’s deft hands relieved her mistress, too, of many other little necessary duties, such as the repair of her clothes; having them carefully laid out for the morning so that the nap might be prolonged and time be given for the care of the beautiful hair and frail hands; helping her dress; serving her breakfast, and getting her ready for the day’s work.  These services over, Martha would move the small pine table close to the sill of the window, where the light was better, spread a clean white towel over its top, and sit beside her while she sewed.

This restful, almost happy, life had been rudely shaken, if not entirely wrecked, by Stephen’s visit.  Up to that time, Lady Barbara—­who had been nearly three weeks with Martha—­had not only delighted in her work, but had shown an enviable pride in keeping pace with her employer’s engagements, often working rather late into the night to finish her allotment on time.

The particular work uppermost in her mind on the night Stephen had called was the repairing of a costly Spanish mantilla which had been picked up in Spain by one of Rosenthal’s customers.  Through the carelessness of a packer, it had been badly slashed near the centre—­an ugly, ragged tear which only the most skilful of needles could restore.  Mangan, some days before, had given it to her to repair with special instructions to return it at a given time, when he had agreed to deliver it to its owner.  It was with a sudden gripping of her heart, therefore, that Martha on her return from an errand at noon had found the mantilla, promised for that very afternoon at three o’clock, lying neglected on the table, Lady Barbara sitting by the window with listless hands and drooping head.  She grew still more anxious when at the appointed hour Rosenthal’s messenger rapped at the door and stood silently waiting, his presence voicing the purpose of his mission, and she heard her mistress say, without an attempt at explanation:  “I am sorry, tell Mr. Mangan, but the Spanish mantilla is not finished.  Some of the other pieces are ready, but you need not wait.  I cannot stop now, even to do them up properly, but I will bring the mantilla myself to-morrow.  Please say so to Mr. Mangan.”