it; she rose above her misery.

His end was now approaching. Mary sat on the side of the bed. His eyes
appeared fixed--no longer agitated by passion, he only felt that it was
a fearful thing to die. The soul retired to the citadel; but it was not
now solely filled by the image of her who in silent despair watched for
his last breath. Collected, a frightful calmness stilled every turbulent
emotion.

The mother's grief was more audible. Henry had for some time only
attended to Mary--Mary pitied the parent, whose stings of conscience
increased her sorrow; she whispered him, "Thy mother weeps, disregarded
by thee; oh! comfort her!--My mother, thy son blesses thee.--" The
oppressed parent left the room. And Mary _waited_ to see him die.

She pressed with trembling eagerness his parched lips--he opened his
eyes again; the spreading film retired, and love returned them--he gave
a look--it was never forgotten. My Mary, will you be comforted?

Yes, yes, she exclaimed in a firm voice; you go to be happy--I am not a
complete wretch! The words almost choked her.

He was a long time silent; the opiate produced a kind of stupor. At
last, in an agony, he cried, It is dark; I cannot see thee; raise me up.
Where is Mary? did she not say she delighted to support me? let me die
in her arms.

Her arms were opened to receive him; they trembled not. Again he was
obliged to lie down, resting on her: as the agonies increased he leaned
towards her: the soul seemed flying to her, as it escaped out of its
prison. The breathing was interrupted; she heard distinctly the last
sigh--and lifting up to Heaven her eyes, Father, receive his spirit, she
calmly cried.

The attendants gathered round; she moved not, nor heard the clamor; the
hand seemed yet to press hers; it still was warm. A ray of light from
an opened window discovered the pale face.

She left the room, and retired to one very near it; and sitting down on
the floor, fixed her eyes on the door of the apartment which contained
the body. Every event of her life rushed across her mind with wonderful
rapidity--yet all was still--fate had given the finishing stroke. She
sat till midnight.--Then rose in a phrensy, went into the apartment, and
desired those who watched the body to retire.

She knelt by the bed side;--an enthusiastic devotion overcame the
dictates of despair.--She prayed most ardently to be supported, and
dedicated herself to the service of that Being into whose hands, she had
committed the spirit she almost adored--again--and again,--she prayed
wildly--and fervently--but attempting to touch the lifeless hand--her
head swum--she sunk--

CHAP. XXX.

Three months after, her only friend, the mother of her lost Henry began
to be alarmed, at observing her altered appearance; and made her own
health a pretext for travelling. These complaints roused Mary out of her
torpid state; she imagined a new duty now forced her to exert herself--a
duty love made sacred!--

They went to Bath, from that to Bristol; but the latter place they
quickly left; the sight of the sick that resort there, they neither of
them could bear. From Bristol they flew to Southampton. The road was
pleasant--yet Mary shut her eyes;--or if they were open, green fields
and commons, passed in quick succession, and left no more traces behind
than if they had been waves of the sea.

Some time after they were settled at Southampton, they met the man who
took so much notice of Mary, soon after her return to England. He
renewed his acquaintance; he was really interested in her fate, as he
had heard her uncommon story; besides, he knew her husband; knew him to
be a good-natured, weak man. He saw him soon after his arrival in his
native country, and prevented his hastening to enquire into the reasons
of Mary's strange conduct. He desired him not to be too precipitate, if
he ever wished to possess an invaluable treasure. He was guided by him,
and allowed him to follow Mary to Southampton, and speak first to her
friend.

This friend determined to trust to her native strength of mind, and
informed her of the circumstance; but she overrated it: Mary was not
able, for a few days after the intelligence, to fix on the mode of
conduct she ought now to pursue. But at last she conquered her disgust,
and wrote her _husband_ an account of what had passed since she had
dropped his correspondence.

He came in person to answer the letter. Mary fainted when he approached
her unexpectedly. Her disgust returned with additional force, in spite
of previous reasonings, whenever he appeared; yet she was prevailed on
to promise to live with him, if he would permit her to pass one year,
travelling from place to place; he was not to accompany her.

The time too quickly elapsed, and she gave him her hand--the struggle
was almost more than she could endure. She tried to appear calm; time
mellowed her grief, and mitigated her torments; but when her husband
would take her hand, or mention any thing like love, she would instantly
feel a sickness, a faintness at her heart, and wish, involuntarily, that
the earth would open and swallow her.

CHAP. XXXI.

Mary visited the continent, and sought health in different climates; but
her nerves were not to be restored to their former state. She then
retired to her house in the country, established manufactories, threw
the estate into small farms; and continually employed herself this way
to dissipate care, and banish unavailing regret. She visited the sick,
supported the old, and educated the young.

These occupations engrossed her mind; but there were hours when all her
former woes would return and haunt her.--Whenever she did, or said, any
thing she thought Henry would have approved of--she could not avoid
thinking with anguish, of the rapture his approbation ever conveyed to
her heart--a heart in which there was a void, that even benevolence and
religion could not fill. The latter taught her to struggle for
resignation; and the former rendered life supportable.

Her delicate state of health did not promise long life. In moments of
solitary sadness, a gleam of joy would dart across her mind--She thought
she was hastening to that world _where there is neither marrying_, nor
giving in marriage.