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