Mary was the child of his romance, of his first marriage, which had
lasted barely a year.

He never talked of her mother, even to Mary, though she had vague
memories of a time when he had not been so reticent. That was before the
stepmother came, the stepmother whom, honestly, Walter Gray had married
because his child was neglected. He had not anticipated, perhaps, the
long string of children which was to result from the marriage, whose
presence in the world was to make Mary's lot a more strenuous one than
would have been the case if she had been a child alone.

Not that Mary grumbled about the stepbrothers and sisters. Year after
year, from the time she could stagger under the weight of a baby, she
had received a new burden for her arms, and had found enough love for
each newcomer.

The second Mrs. Gray was a poor, puny, washed-out little rag of a woman,
whose one distinction was the number of her children. They had always
great appetites to be satisfied. As soon as they began to run about, the
rapidity with which they wore out their boots and the knees of their
trousers, and outgrew their frocks, was a subject upon which Mrs. Gray
could expatiate for hours. Mary had a tender, strong pity from the
earliest age for the down-at-heel, over-burdened stepmother, which
lightened her own load, as did the vicarious, motherly love which came
to her for each succeeding fat baby.

Mary was nurse and nursery-governess to all the family. Wistaria Terrace
had one great recompense for its humble and hidden condition. It was
within easy reach of the fields and the mountains. For an adventurous
spirit the sea was not at an insuperable distance. Indeed, but for the
high wall of the school playground, the lovely line of mountains had
been well in view. As it was, many a day in summer Mary would carry off
her train of children to the fields, with a humble refection of bread
and butter and jam, and milk for their mid-day meal; and these occasions
allowed Mrs. Gray a few hours of peace that were like a foretaste of
Paradise.

She never grumbled, poor little woman, because her husband shared his
thoughts with Mary and not with her. Whatever ambitions she had had to
rise to her Walter's level--she had an immense opinion of his
learning--had long been extinguished under the accumulation of toils and
burdens that made up her daily life. She was fond of Mary, and leant on
her strangely, considering their relative ages. For the rest, she