The next day was Sunday, and they all went to church. Letty felt
that Tom was there, too, but she never raised her eyes to glance
at him.
He had been looking out in vain for a sight of her--now from the
oak-tree, now from his bay mare's back, as he haunted the roads
about Thornwick, now from the window of the little public-house
where the path across the fields joined the main road to
Testbridge: but not once had he caught a glimpse of her.
He had seated himself where he could not fail to see her if she
were in the Thornwick pew. How ill she looked! His heart swelled
with indignation.
"They are cruel to her," he said; "that is plain. Poor girl, they
will kill her! She is a pearl in the oyster-maw of Thornwick.
This will never do; I _must_ see her somehow!"
If at this crisis Letty had but had a real friend to strengthen
and advise her, much suffering might have been spared her, for
never was there a more teachable girl. She was, indeed, only too
ready to be advised, too ready to accept for true whatever
friendship offered itself. None but the friend who will
strengthen us to stand, is worthy of the name. Such a friend Mary
would have been, but Letty did not yet know what she needed. The
unrest of her conscience made her shrink from one who was sure to
side with that conscience, and help it to trouble her. It was
sympathy Letty longed for, not strength, and therefore she was
afraid of Mary.
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