"I'll leave home at half past four," said Mrs. Wykoff. "It isn't over ten minutes' walk to your house."

"You'll find me all ready. Oh, dear!" and Mrs. Lowe drew a long, sighing breath. "I hope she didn't take cold at my house. I hope nothing serious will grow out of it. I wouldn't have anything of this kind happen for the world. People are so uncharitable. If it should get out, I would be talked about dreadfully; and I'm sure the girl is a great deal more to blame than I am. Why didn't she see to it that her feet and clothes were dried before she sat down to her work?"

Mrs. Wykoff did not answer. Mrs. Lowe stood for a few moments, waiting for some exculpatory suggestion; but Mrs. Wykoff had none to offer.

"Good morning. You'll find me all ready when you call."

"Good morning."

And the ladies parted.

"Ah, Mrs. Lowe! How are you this morning?"

A street meeting, ten minutes later.

"Right well. How are you?"

"Well as usual. I just called at your house."

"Ah, indeed! Come, go back again."

"No, thank you; I've several calls to make this morning. But, d' you know, there's a strange story afloat about a certain lady of your acquaintance?"

"Of my acquaintance?"

"Yes; a lady with whom you are very, very intimate."

"What is it?" There was a little anxiety mixed with the curious air of Mrs. Lowe.

"Something about murdering a sewing-girl."

"What?" Mrs. Lowe started as if she had received a blow; a frightened look came into her face.

"But there isn't anything in it, of course," said the friend, in considerable astonishment at the effect produced on Mrs. Lowe.

"Tell me just what you have heard," said the latter. "You mean me by the lady of your intimate acquaintance."

"Yes; the talk is about you. It came from doctor somebody; I don't know whom. He's attending the girl."

"What is said? I wish to know. Don't keep back anything on account of my feelings. I shall know as to its truth or falsehood; and, true or false, it is better that I should stand fully advised. A seamstress came to work for me on Monday--it was a stormy day, you know--took cold from wet feet, and is now very ill. That much I know. It might have happened at your house, or your neighbors, without legitimate blame lying against either of you. Now, out of this simple fact, what dreadful report is circulated to my injury? As I have just said, don't keep anything back."

"The story," replied the friend, "is that she walked for half a mile before breakfast, in the face of that terrible north-east storm, and came to you with feet soaking and skirts wet to the knees, and that you put her to work, in this condition, in a cold room, and suffered her to sit in her wet garments all day. That, in consequence, she went home sick, was attacked with pleurisy in the evening, which soon ran into acute pneumonia, and that she is now dying. The doctor, who told my friend, called it murder, and said, without hesitation, that you were a murderer."

"Dying! Did he say that she was dying?"

"Yes, ma'am. The doctor said that you might as well have put a pistol ball through her head."

"Me!"

"Yes, you. Those were his words, as repeated by my friend."

"Who is the friend to whom you refer?"

"Mrs. T----."

"And, without a word of inquiry as to the degree of blame referable to me, she repeats this wholesale charge, to my injury? Verily, that is Christian charity!"

"I suggested caution on her part, and started to see you at once. Then she did sit in her wet clothing all day at your house?"

"I don't know whether she did or not," replied Mrs. Lowe, fretfully.

"She was of woman's age, and competent to take care of herself. If she came in wet, she knew it; and there was fire in the house, at which she could have dried herself. Even a half-witted person, starting from home on a morning like that, and expecting to be absent all day, would have provided herself with dry stockings and slippers for a change. If the girl dies from cold taken on that occasion, it must be set down to suicide, not murder. I may have been thoughtless, but I am not responsible. I'm sorry for her; but I cannot take blame to myself. The same thing might have happened in your house."

"It might have happened in other houses than yours, Mrs. Lowe, I will admit," was replied. "But I do not think it would have happened in mine. I was once a seamstress myself and for nearly two years went out to work in families. What I experienced during those two years has made me considerate towards all who come into my house in that capacity.

Many who are compelled to earn a living with the needle, were once in better condition than now, and the change touches some of them rather sharply. In some families they are treated with a thoughtful kindness, in strong contrast with what they receive in other families. If sensitive and retiring, they learn to be very chary about asking for anything beyond what is conceded, and bear, rather than suggest or complain."

"I've no patience with that kind of sensitiveness," replied Mrs. Lowe; "it's simply ridiculous; and not only ridiculous, but wrong. Is every sewing-girl who comes into your house to be treated like an honored guest?"

"We are in no danger of erring, Mrs. Lowe," was answered, "on the side of considerate kindness, even to sewing-women. They are human, and have wants, and weaknesses, and bodily conditions that as imperatively demand a timely and just regard as those of the most honored guest who may sojourn with us. And what is more, as I hold, we cannot omit our duty either to the one or to the other, and be blameless. But I must hurry on. Good morning, Mrs. Lowe."

"Good morning," was coldly responded. And the two ladies parted.

We advance the time a few hours. It is nearly sundown, and the slant beams are coming in through the partly-raised blinds, and falling on the bed, where, white, and panting for the shortcoming breath, lies Mary Carson, a little raised by pillows against which her head rests motionless. Her eyes are shut, the brown lashes lying in two deep fringes on her cheeks. Away from her temples and forehead the hair has been smoothly brushed by loving hands, and there is a spiritual beauty in her face that is suggestive of heaven. Mrs. Grant is on one side of the bed, and the physician on the other. Both are gazing intently on the sick girl's face. The door opens, and two ladies come in, noiselessly--Mrs. Lowe and Mrs. Wykoff. They are strangers there to all but Mary Carson, and she has pa.s.sed too far on the journey homeward for mortal recognitions. Mrs. Grant moves a little back from the bed, and the two ladies stand in her place, leaning forward, with half-suspended breathing. The almost cla.s.sic beauty of Miss Carson's face; the exquisite cutting of every feature; the purity of its tone--are all at once so apparent to Mrs. Lowe that she gazes down, wonder and admiration mingling with awe and self-accusation.

There is a slight convulsive cough, with a fleeting spasm. The white lips are stained. Mrs. Lowe shudders. The stain is wiped off, and all is still as before. Now the slanting sun rays touch the pillows, close beside the white face, lighting it with a glory that seems not of the earth. They fade, and life fades with them, going out as they recede.

With the last pencil of sunbeams pa.s.ses the soul of Mary Carson.

"It is over!" The physician breathes deeply, and moves backwards from the bed.

"Over with her," he adds, like one impelled by crowding thoughts to untimely utterance. "The bills of mortality will say pneumonia--_it were better written murder_."

Call it murder, or suicide, as you will; only, fair reader, see to it that responsibility in such a case lies never at your door.

X.

THE NURSERY MAID.

_I DID_ not feel in a very good humor either with myself or with Polly, my nursery maid. The fact is, Polly had displeased me; and I, while under the influence of rather excited feelings, had rebuked her with a degree of intemperance not exactly becoming in a Christian gentlewoman, or just to a well meaning, though not perfect domestic.

Polly had taken my sharp words without replying. They seemed to stun her. She stood for a few moments, after the vials of my wrath were emptied, her face paler than usual, and her lips almost colorless. Then she turned and walked from my room with a slow but firm step. There was an air of purpose about her, and a manner that puzzled me a little.

The thermometer of my feelings was gradually falling, though not yet reduced very far below fever-heat, when Polly stood again before me. A red spot now burned on each cheek, and her eyes were steady as she let them rest in mine.

"Mrs. Wilkins," said she, firmly, yet respectfully, "I am going to leave when my month is up."

Now, I have my own share of willfulness and impulsive independence. So I answered, without hesitation or reflection,