ne evening, soon after the baby's arrival, as Mary sat with him in her
lap, the sweet tones they had heard twice before came creeping into her
ears so gently that she seemed to be aware of their presence only after
they had been for some time coming and going: she laid the baby down,
and, stealing from the room, listened on the landing. Certainly the
sounds were born in the house, but whether they came from below or
above she could not tell. Going first down the stair, and then up, she
soon satisfied herself that they came from above, and thereupon
ventured a little farther up the stair.

She had already been to see the dressmaker, whom she had come to know
through the making of Hesper's twilight robe of cloud, had found her
far from well, and had done what she could for her. But she was in no
want, and of more than ordinary independence--a Yorkshire woman, about
forty years of age, delicate, but of great patience and courage; a
plain, fair, freckled woman, with a belief in religion rather than in
God. Very strict, therefore, in her observances, she thought a great
deal more of the Sabbath than of man, a great deal more of the Bible
than of the truth, and ten times more of her creed than of the will of
God; and, had she heard any one utter such words as I have just
written, would have said he was an atheist. She was a worthy creature,
notwithstanding, only very unpleasant if one happened to step on the
toes of a pet ignorance. Mary soon discovered that there was no profit
in talking with her on the subjects she loved most: plainly she knew
little about them, except at second hand--that is, through the forms of
other minds than her own. Such people seem intended for the special
furtherance of the saints in patience; being utterly unassailable by
reason, they are especially trying to those who desire to stand on
brotherly terms with all men, and so are the more sensitive to the
rudeness that always goes with moral stupidity; intellectual stupidity
may coexist with the loveliness of an angel. It is one of the blessed
hopes of the world to come, that there will be none such in it. But why
so many words? I say to myself, Will one of such as I mean recognize
his portrait in my sketch? Many such have I met in my young days, and
in my old days I find they swarm still. I could wish that all such had
to earn their own bread like Ann Byron: had she been rich, she would
have been unbearable. Women like her, when they are well to do,