he slightest assumption of
patronage or superiority of any kind.

It is unnecessary to say that "Robinson's" was figuratively in the
deepest mourning, only rousing itself from its despair to proclaim his
merits and those of his father before him, as masters. Men gravely
pointed out the old servants he had pensioned; those in middle age
whom he had kept on when their best days were past; the boys he had
already taken in, fitted out, and launched on the world by judicious,
unostentatious backing. Women tearfully reminded the listener how
carefully he had provided for their comfort and well-being throughout
his establishment, from the ample time allowed for their meals and the
seats to which they could retire when not actually serving, to the
early closing hours, which afforded them and the men who were their
associates, some leisure for out-of-doors exercise and indoors
recreation. As for mental and spiritual improvement, he was always
ready to subscribe liberally to libraries, choral unions, friendly
societies, Christian associations, missionary boxes--every conceivable
means of rational pleasure, culture, and true human elevation of which
his people would avail themselves.

Mrs. Carey called at the Corn Exchange and offered her unprofessional
services as a nurse, if further aid were wanted.

Mr. Pemberton, acquainted with the fact of Tom Robinson's illness
through communicating with Rose Millar on her commission, wrote that he
could hardly keep Lady Mary from descending on Redcross to see after
their friend, and if it would be the least good she would come down. It
would be but a poor return for the aid Robinson had lent her when her
husband lay desperately sick and she had nobody to appeal to, save the
fat and fatuous _padrone_ of a miserable little Italian inn.

May, who was at last prevented from coming to her sisters, presented
herself when they went to their father's, her eyes swollen with weeping
for her "coach."

Every time Annie left the transformed hall of the Exchange and repaired
to the rooms which she and Dora occupied, she found a white face on the
watch for her, and pale lips which could hardly form the syllables, "How
is he now? Oh! Annie, must he die?" At least Dora was on the spot to
hear each hour's report, as if she had been his nearest relative, and
without asking herself the reason why, that was a little bit of comfort
to her. In the same manner Tom Robinson derived a dim satisfaction from
the