the death of such poor love as Tom's.

Mary and Sepia were on terms of politeness--of readiness to help on the
one side, and condescension upon the other. Sepia would have
condescended to the Mother Mary. The pure human was an idea beyond her,
as beyond most people. They have not enough _religion_ toward God to
know there is such a thing as religion toward their neighbor. But Sepia
never made an enemy-if she could help it. She could not afford the
luxury of hating--openly, at least. But I imagine she would have hated
Mary heartily could she have seen the way she regarded her--the look of
pitiful love, of compassionate and waiting helpfulness which her soul
would now and then cast upon her. Of all things she would have resented
pity; and she took Mary's readiness to help for servility--and
naturally, seeing in herself willingness came from nothing else, though
she called it prudence and necessity, and knew no shame because of it.
Her children justify the heavenly wisdom, but the worldly wisdom
justifies her children. Mary could not but feel how Sepia regarded her
service, but service, to be true, must be divine, that is, to the just
and the unjust, like the sun and the rain.

Between Sepia and Mr. Redmain continued a distance too great for either
difference or misunderstanding. They met with a cold good morning, and
parted without any good night. Their few words were polite, and their
demeanor was civil. At the breakfast-table, Sepia would silently pass
things to Mr. Redmain; Mr. Redmain would thank her, but never trouble
himself to do as much for her. His attentions, indeed, were seldom
wasted at home; but he was not often rude to anybody save his wife and
his man, except when he was ill.

It was a long time before he began to feel any interest in Mary. He
knew nothing of her save as a nice-looking maid his wife had
got--rather a prim-looking puss, he would have said, had he had
occasion to describe her. What Mary knew of him was merely the
reflection of him in the mind of his wife; but, the first time she saw
him, she felt she would rather not have to speak to him.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

A STRAY SOUND.

Mary went to see Letty as often as she could, and that was not seldom;
but she had scarcely a chance of seeing Tom; either he was not up, or
had gone--to the office, Letty supposed: she had no more idea of where
the office was, or of the other localities haunted by Tom, than he
himself had of what spirit he wa