Which epistle Nancy cruelly read aloud to Mary, with a sprightliness and sarcastic humour not excelled by her criticisms of ‘the Prophet’ in days gone by. Mary did not quite understand, but she saw in this behaviour a proof of the wonderful courage with which Nancy faced her troubles. A week had passed, and no news from America. ‘I don’t care,’ said Nancy. ‘Really and truly, I don’t care. Yesterday I never once thought of it--never once looked for the postman. The worst is over now, and he may write or not, as he likes.’ Mary felt sure there would be an explanation of such strange silence. ‘Only illness or death would explain it so as to make me forgive him. But he isn’t ill. He is alive, and enjoying himself.’ There was no bitterness in her voice. She seemed to have outlived all sorrows and anxieties relative to her husband. Mary suggested that it was always possible to call at Mr. Vawdrey’s house and make inquiries of Mrs. Baker. ‘No, I won’t do that. Other women would do it, but I won’t. So long as I mayn’t tell the truth, I should only set them talking about me; you know how. I see the use, now, of having a good deal of pride. I’m only sorry for those letters I wrote when I wasn’t in my senses. If he writes now, I shall not answer. He shall know that I am as independent as he is. What a blessed thing it is for a woman to have money of her own! It’s because most women haven’t, that they’re such poor, wretched slaves.’ ‘If he knew you were in want,’ said her companion, ‘he would never have behaved like this.’ ‘Who can say?--No, I won’t pretend to think worse of him than I do. You’re quite right. He wouldn’t leave his wife to starve. It’s certain that he hears about me from some one. If I were found out, and lost everything, some one would let him know. But I wouldn’t accept support from him, now. He might provide for his child, but he shall never provide for me, come what may--never!’ It was in the evening, after dinner. Nancy had a newspaper, and was reading the advertisements that offered miscellaneous employment. ‘What do you think this can be?’ she asked, looking up after a long silence. ‘“To ladies with leisure. Ladies desiring to add to their income by easy and pleasant work should write”’--&c. &c. ‘I’ve no faith in those kind of advertisements,’ said Mary. ‘No; of course it’s rubbish. There’s no easy and pleasant way of earning money; only silly people expect it. And I don’t want anything easy or pleasant. I want honest hard work. Not work with my hands--I’m not suited for that, but real work, such as lots of educated girls are doing. I’m quite willing to pay for learning it; most likely I shall have to. Who could I write to for advice?’ They were sitting upstairs, and so did not hear a visitor’s knock that sounded at the front door. The servant came and announced that Miss. French wished to see Miss. Lord. ‘Miss. French? Is it the younger Miss. French?’