For the first time, a feeling of dislike to Mary awoke in the
bosom of her mistress--very naturally, _all_ my readers will
allow. The next few days she scarcely spoke to her, sending
directions for her work through Sepia, who discharged the office
with dignity.
CHAPTER XLI.
THE HELPER.
At length one morning, when she believed Mrs. Redmain would not
rise before noon, Mary felt she must go and see Letty. She did
not find her in the quarters where she had left her, but a story
higher, in a mean room, sitting with her hands in her lap. She
did not lift her eyes when Mary entered: where hope is dead,
curiosity dies. Not until she had come quite near did she raise
her head, and then she seemed to know nothing of her. When she
did recognize her, she held out her hand in a mechanical way, as
if they were two specters met in a miserable dream, in which they
were nothing to each other, and neither could do, or cared to do,
anything for the other.
"My poor Letty!" cried Mary, greatly shocked, "what has come to
you? Are you not glad to see me? Has anything happened to Tom?"
She broke into a low, childish wail, and for a time that was all
Mary heard. Presently, however, she became aware of a feeble
moaning in the adjoining chamber, the sound of a human sea in
trouble--mixed with a wandering babble, which to Letty was but as
the voice of her own despair, and to Mary was a cry for help.
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