rapid change in his tone, "what is the matter? Miss Graham, what is the matter!"
Mr. Pecksniff brought up to the top of the pew, by slow degrees, his hair, his forehead, his eyebrow, his eye. She was sitting on a bench beside the door with her hands before her face; and Tom was bending over her.
"What is the matter!" cried Tom. "Have I said anything to hurt you? Has any one said anything to hurt you? Don't cry. Pray tell me what it is. I cannot bear to see you so distressed. Mercy on us, I never was so surprised and grieved in all my life!"
Mr. Pecksniff kept his eye in the same place. He could have moved it now for nothing short of a gimlet or a red-hot wire.
"I wouldn't have told you, Mr. Pinch," said Mary, "if I could have helped it; but your delusion is so absorbing, and it is so necessary that we should be upon our guard; that you should not be compromised; and to that end that you should know by whom I am beset; that no alternative is left me. I came here purposely to tell you, but I think I should have wanted courage if you had not chanced to lead me so directly to the object of my coming."
Tom gazed at her stedfastly, and seemed to say, "What else?" But he said not a word.
"That person whom you think the best of men," said Mary, looking up, and speaking with a quivering lip and flashing eye:
"Lord bless me!" muttered Tom, staggering back. "Wait a moment. That person whom I think the best of men! You mean Pecksniff, of course. Yes, I see you mean Pecksniff. Good gracious me, don't speak without authority. What has he done? If he is not the best of men, what is he?"
"The worst. The falsest, craftiest, meanest, cruelest, most sordid, most shameless," said the trembling girl—trembling with her indignation.
Tom sat down on a seat, and clasped his hands.
"What is he," said Mary, "who receiving me in his house as his guest: his unwilling guest: knowing my history, and how defenceless and alone I am, presumes before his daughters to affront me so that if I had a brother but a child, who saw it, he would instinctively have helped me?"
"He is a scoundrel!" exclaimed Tom. "Whoever he may be, he is a scoundrel."
Mr. Pecksniff dived again.
"What is he," said Mary, "who, when my only friend: a dear and kind one too: was in full health of mind, humbled himself before him, but was spurned away (for he knew him then) like a dog. Who, in his forgiving spirit, now that that friend is sunk into a failing state, can crawl about him again, and use the influence he basely gains, for every base and wicked purpose, and not for one—not one—that's true or good?"
"I say he is a scoundrel," answered Tom.
"But what is he: oh Mr. Pinch, what is he: who, thinking he could compass these designs the better were I his wife, assails me with the
