On the sofa, the very sofa for which M. Schomberg had so longed, lay
Miss Webster, the expression of her face manifesting the greatest pain.
The servant girl had just brought up her mistress's tea, a cold,
slopped, miserable looking mess. A slice of thick bread and butter, half
soaked in the spilled beverage, was on a plate, and that a dirty one;
and the tray which held the meal was offered to the poor sick woman so
carelessly, that the contents were nearly shot into her lap. It was easy
to see that love formed no part of Betsey's service of her mistress, and
that she rendered every attention grudgingly and ill. Emilie went up
cordially to Miss Webster, and was not prepared for the repulsive
reception with which she met. She wondered what she could have said or
done, except, indeed, in the refusal of the instrument, and that was
atoned for. Emilie might have known, however, that nothing makes our
manners so distant and cold to another, as the knowledge that we have
injured or offended him. Miss Webster, in receiving Emilie's advances,
truly was experiencing the truth of the scripture saying, that coals of
fire should be heaped on her head.
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