Never was anyone less inclined to give trouble than Mary.

Not for worlds would she have gone back to the house where the new cold rule was, to meet Lady Iniscrone's unfriendly eyes.
Only while the body of her benefactress was yet above ground she had stolen across at quiet hours, in the absence of the enemy, to look for the last time on the quiet face.

She had carried away little Fifine.
Fifine was seventeen years old now, and shook incessantly and moaned in a lost way in her darkness.

But she knew Mary's voice.

Mary was the one that could comfort her.