ught was never noticed.
Nobody troubled about what I thought. I was just Mary--a useful
machine. Nobody takes any notice of a machine, except to keep it oiled.
Nobody expects it to be sad, or in pain, or lonely, or discouraged, or
tired of turning round and round in the same small space. Nobody
suspects it of having a heart... but it has all the same, and when it
has a chance of breaking free--it does not let it go. This money is my
chance. A woman brought up as I have been is powerless without money,
and I have had none. I've never had a penny piece in my life for which
I've not had to say thank you. The money you have given me has never
been looked upon as my right, as payment for work... yet I have worked
hard. I have given you my whole life."

"You have done your duty in the position in which it has pleased God to
place you," said Mrs Mallison with dignity. As Mary's excitement had
increased, she had grown quieter, and her face showed signs of mental
shock. Not the news of the legacy itself had been so startling as this
sudden outbreak on the part of the silent, patient daughter. Nor was
her distress in any sense affected. According to her lights she had
been a good mother, careful of colds and draughts, of food and raiment.
Five minutes ago she would have declared her conscience to be free of
reproach so far as Mary was concerned; it was paralysing to discover
that she had been looked upon as a heartless task-mistress. Her
exultation of a moment before was replaced by pain and discomfort, and
her voice took the deeper tone of earnestness.

"You have fulfilled your duty in the place in which it has pleased God
to place you... and have done the work He set you to do."

"Are you so sure of that?" Mary asked, and Mrs Mallison had an
agonised conviction that the girl was going to turn atheist into the
bargain!

"Then why did He make me with a woman's heart, with a woman's natural
longing? Why did He give me the instinct to crave for someone of my
own, who would put me first, instead of nowhere at all. Someone who
would _care_. And it isn't only people that a woman wants,--it's
things! What had I of my own? The clothes I wear. Nothing more. No
pauper in the land is poorer than I have been! If this is my appointed
place and I have done my duty in it, why am I so empty and tired? Poor
Mary Mallison! whom everyone pities, and nobody wants. Oh, yes! you may
think I don't know how people talk of me