CHAPTER XXXIV.
A STRAY SOUND.
Mary went to see Letty as often as she could, and that was not seldom; but she had scarcely a chance of seeing Tom; either he was not up, or had gone--to the office, Letty supposed: she had no more idea of where the office was, or of the other localities haunted by Tom, than he himself had of what spirit he was of.
One day, when Mary could not help remarking upon her pale, weary looks, Letty burst into tears, and confided to her a secret of which she was not the less proud that it caused her anxiety and fear.

As soon as she began to talk about it, the joy of its hope began to predominate, and before Mary left her she might have seemed to a stranger the most blessed little creature in the world.

The greatness of her delight made Mary sad for her.

To any thoughtful heart it must be sad to think what a little time the joy of so many mothers lasts--not because their babies die, but because they live; but Mary's mournfulness was caused by the fear that the splendid dawn of mother-hope would soon be swallowed in dismal clouds of father-fault.

For mothers and for wives there is no redemption, no unchaining of love, save by the coming of the kingdom--_in themselves_.