gloomy face," said the housekeeper. "She kept us all comfortable for the
sake of being comfortable herself, but no more."

"Oh, you are hard upon my lady!" cried Jervis, "and I can't bear to hear
a word against her, though it's been an awful disappointment to me."

"What's you or me, or any one," cried Mrs. Prentiss, "in comparison of
that poor little thing that can't work for her living like we can; that
is left on the charity of folks she don't belong to? I'd have forgiven my
lady anything, if she'd done what was right by Miss Mary. You'll get a
place, and a good place; and me, they'll leave me here when the new folks
come as have taken the house. But what will become of her, the darling?
and not a penny, nor a friend, nor one to look to her? Oh, you selfish
old woman! oh, you heart of stone! I just hope you are feeling it where
you're gone," the housekeeper cried.

But as she said this, the woman did not know who was looking at her with
wide, wistful eyes, holding out her hands in appeal, receiving every word
as if it had been a blow,--though she knew it was useless. Lady Mary
could not help it. She cried out to them, "Have pity upon me! Have pity
upon me! I am not cruel, as you think," with a keen anguish in her voice,
which seemed to be sharp enough to pierce the very air and go up to the
skies. And so, perhaps, it did; but never touched the human atmosphere in
which she stood a stranger. Jervis was threading her needle when her
mistress uttered that cry; but her hand did not tremble, nor did the
thread deflect a hair's-breadth from the straight line. The young mother
alone seemed to be moved by some faint disturbance. "Hush!" she said, "is
he waking?"--looking towards the cradle. But as the baby made no further
sound, she too, returned to her sewing; and they sat bending their heads
over their work round the table, and continued their talk. The room was