That I had lowered myself in her estimation, I felt certain.

I heard the street door open, and bent, involuntarily, in a listening attitude.

The voice of a lady uttered my name.
"She's not at home, mim," came distinctly on my ears, causing the flush on my cheeks to become still deeper.
A murmur of voices followed.

Then I heard the closing of the vestibule door, and Mary returning to the back parlor where we were sitting.
"Who was it, Mary ?" I enquired, as the girl entered.
"Mrs .-- Mrs .-- Now what was it?
Sure, and I've forgotten their names intirely." But, lack of memory did not long keep me in ignorance as to who were my visitors, for, as ill luck would have it, they had bethought themselves of some message they wished to leave, and, re-opening the vestibule door, left a-jar by Mary, followed her along the passage to the room they saw her enter.

As they pushed open the door of the parlor, Mary heard them, and, turning quickly, exclaimed, in consternation-- "Och, murther!" A moment she stood, confronting, in no very graceful attitude, a couple of ladies, and then escaped to the kitchen.
Here was a scene of embarrassment.