ne in which Mary responded to
these calls, it was the patience of a wild beast which must submit or
starve, but behind the submission a discerning observer might have
observed the teeth and the claw. But then no discerning observer
troubled about Mary Mallison. She was one of the women on whom the
world turns its back.

As might naturally be expected, the arrival of the post-bag furnished
Mrs Mallison with some of the most thrilling moments of her day, and
her interest in the correspondence of others was even keener than in her
own. If the recipient was out at the time the letter was delivered, she
examined postmark and writing to discover the writer, and then set to
work to anticipate the contents.

"Mrs Fenton writing to Mary... What can she have to say?... She's at
home, from the postmark... They never correspond. Dear me! ... Most
peculiar! Perhaps it's a subscription... Perhaps it's a bazaar...
Mary did once help her in a sale of work. Baskets, I remember--a stall
of baskets. She wore a brown dress. She must certainly refuse. Too
many calls at home. What does she want gadding over to Mayfield?...
That! Madam Rose's bill again for Teresa. The third time. Papa must
speak to her. Gives the house a bad name. And... er... what's this? I
_know_ the writing--do I know it? Is it a man or a woman? They all
write alike nowadays. No crest. On such a good paper one would expect
a crest. I must explain to Teresa that on no account can I allow her to
correspond with men... Perhaps it is a schoolfellow..."

It was at the breakfast table one morning that the great news came, and
it was imparted in a dull, legal-looking envelope addressed to the
eldest daughter. Mrs Mallison's eye caught the lawyer's name on the
flap of the envelope, and pounced on the significance.

"Ratcliffe and Darsie--Miss Brewster's lawyers. She's left you a
legacy. I expected it, of course. Quite the right thing. Her own
godchild, but I did not think we should hear so soon. Dear me! How
much? She was not rich, so you can't expect a large sum... Twenty
pounds perhaps, to buy a ring. Most kind. Possibly a hundred...
_Mary_! We are all waiting! Why don't you speak? Quite a long letter.
Read it out--read it out! Most inconsiderate to keep us waiting. How
much is the legacy?"

"There is no legacy."

Mrs Mallison's breath forsook her, for it might be the quarter of a
minute, then returned with renewed force and vio