the slights and trifling disrespects which are only felt by the refined poor--all these petty indignities were bitter to Martha, yet she had a certain satisfaction in compelling herself to endure them. To stand among the indiscriminate host who maintained themselves as she did; to submit her work to the inspection of some small official; to listen patiently to comments upon it, made for the sake of preserving a needful importance and superiority; these and many a trifling insult more were very hard to bear--but there was a bitter pleasure in bowing to them, a stormy joy in the conscious force with which she subdued her own rebellious nature, and put her foot upon its neck. It was conquering her pride, she thought, and she conquered it proudly, using its own might to vanquish itself. But though Martha could bear needful humiliations herself, this pride of hers, which enabled her to bear them, built a mighty wall round her children. She could not bear humiliation to brother or sister; they were hers--heart of her heart, crown of her honour--and with the constant watchfulness of jealous love she guarded them from derogation. With courage unfailing she could bear what was needful to be borne if it might be in her own person, but if it fell on them, the blow struck to her heart. And so she passed through crowds of prosperous people, who never bestowed a second look upon her--a woman growing old, with grey streaks in her hair, and harsh lines in her face--a _poor_ woman, distressed and full of care--what was there to look at? But if some magic had changed the bodily form, which was a veil to her, into the person of some noble despot king, foiled and despairing, there was enough to rivet the eyes of a world. She was carrying back a fortnight’s laborious work--and filling up all the interstices of the greater misery, which did not change, were a hundred shifting plans of how to distribute this pittance. A strange chaos was in Martha’s mind as she went through those crowded streets. Broken prayers, so often repeated that they came vacantly into her mind often, and often fell upon her like strong inspirations, forcing her almost to cry aloud in an agony of entreaty, mingled with those painful calculations of the petty sum she was about to receive, which hovered like so many irritating insects over the dull and heavy pain in her heart. The cloud would not disperse; the weight would not lighten from her. Harry, at home, had smiles of new confidence on his face already, and had talked Agnes and Rose into hope; but the days of hope were past for Martha. She desired to submit; she longed to bend her neck meekly under the yoke, and acquiesce in what God sent; but the struggle was hard, and it seemed to herself that she could have submitted easily to any affliction but this--this was the intolerable pain--and this was her fate.