There was one night of terror in every week. On Saturday, after the
other children were in bed, the mother and daughter sat sewing or
knitting in silence through long hours, waiting in sickening
apprehension for the sound of uncertain footsteps on the stairs. Now
and again they prayed to quieten their hearts. Yet they longed for his
coming. When he appeared he would throw into the fire the supper they
had stinted themselves to provide for him. Sometimes Mary was forced
out into the streets where she wandered in the dark, alone, sobbing out
her misery.

All the efforts of wife and daughter were directed towards hiding the
skeleton in the house. The fear of exposure before the neighbours, the
dread lest Mary's church friends should come to know the secret, made
the two sad souls pinch and struggle and suffer with endless patience.
None of the other children was aware of the long vigils that were
spent. The fact that the family was never disgraced in public was
attributed to prayer. The mother prayed, the daughter prayed,
ceaselessly, with utter simplicity of belief, and they were never once
left stranded or put to shame. Their faith not only saved them from
despair, it made them happy in the intervals of their distress. Few
brighter or more hopeful families gathered in church from Sunday to
Sunday.

Nevertheless these days left their mark upon Mary for life. She was at
the plastic age, she was gentle and sensitive and loving, and what she
passed through hurt and saddened her spirit. To the end it was the only
memory that had power to send a shaft of bitterness across the
sweetness of her nature. It added to her shyness and to her reluctance
to appear in public and speak, which was afterwards so much commented
upon, for always at the back of her mind was the consciousness of that