"And yet," said he, "if I had married any other woman, and you had married any other man, we should have had children by the dozen, I suppose." Upon the whole, though he said nothing palpably unjust, he had the tone of a man blaming his wife as the real cause of their joint calamity, under which she suffered a deeper, nobler, and more silent anguish than himself.

This was hard to bear; and when Sir Charles went away, Mary Wells ran in, with an angry expression on the tip of her tongue.
She found Lady Bassett in a pitiable condition, lying rather than leaning on the table, with her hair loose about her, sobbing as if her heart would break.
All that was good in Mary Wells tugged at her heart-strings.

She flung herself on her knees beside her, and seizing her mistress's hand, and drawing it to her bosom, fell to crying and sobbing along with her.
This canine devotion took Lady Bassett by surprise.

She turned her tearful eyes upon her sympathizing servant, and said, "Oh, Mary!" and her soft hand pressed the girl's harder palm gratefully.
Mary spoke first.

"Oh, my lady," she sobbed, "it breaks my heart to see you so.