She might be human; might have an individual life full of
wants, yearnings, and tender sensibilities; might be conscious of
bodily or mental suffering--but, if so, it was in a region so remote
from that in which Mrs. Lowe dwelt, that no intelligence thereof
reached her.
At six o'clock, Mary put up her work, and, taking her bonnet and
shawl, went down stairs, intending to return home.
"You're not going?" said Mrs. Lowe, meeting her on the way. She
spoke in some surprise.
"Yes, ma'am. I'm not very well, and wish to get home."
"What time is it?" Mrs. Lowe drew out her watch. "Only six o'clock.
I think you're going rather early. It was late when you came this
morning, you know."
"Excuse me, if you please," said Miss Carson, as she moved on. "I am
not very well to-night. To-morrow I will make it up."
Mrs. Lowe muttered something that was not heard by the seamstress,
who kept on down stairs, and left the house.
The rain was still falling and the wind blowing. Mary's feet were
quite wet again by the time she reached home.
"How are you, child?" asked Mrs. Grant, in kind concern, as Mary
came in.
"Not very well," was answered.
"Oh! I'm sorry! Have you taken cold?"
"I'm afraid that I have."
"I said it was wrong in you to go out this morning. Did you get very
wet?"
"Yes."
Mrs. Grant looked down at Mary's feet. "Are they damp?"
"A little.
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