“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 passed 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 classic 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 passes 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.