The house whither she had been brought was large and old-fashioned.  The rooms had once been magnificently fitted up, but the hangings and furniture were much faded, and had a gloomy and neglected air.  This was especially observable in the sleeping-chamber appointed for her reception.  It was large and lofty, panelled with black and shining oak, with a highly-polished floor of the same material, and was filled with cumbrous chests and cabinets, and antique high-backed chairs.  But the most noticeable object was a large state-bed, with a heavy square canopy, covered, with the richest damask, woven with gold, and hung with curtains of the same stuff, though now decayed and tarnished.  A chill crept over Amabel as she gazed around.

“I cannot help thinking,” she observed to Prudence, “that I shall breathe my last in this room, and in that bed.”

“I hope not, madam,” returned the attendant, unable to repress a shudder.

Nothing more was said, and Amabel retired to rest.  But not being able to sleep, and having vainly tried to compose herself, she arose and opened the window.  It was a serene and beautiful night, and she could see the smooth river sparkling in the starlight, and flowing at a hundred yards’ distance at the foot of the garden.  Beyond, she could indistinctly perceive the outline of the mighty city, while nearer, on the left, lay the bridge.  Solemnly across the water came the sound of innumerable bells, tolling for those who had died of the plague, and were now being borne to their last home.  While listening to these sad sounds, another, but more doleful and appalling noise, caught her ears.  It was the rumbling of cart-wheels in the adjoining street, accompanied by the ringing of a hand-bell, while a hoarse-voice cried, “Bring out your dead! bring out your dead!” On hearing this cry, she closed the window and retired.  Morning broke before sleep visited her weary eyelids, and then, overcome by fatigue, she dropped into a slumber, from which she did not awake until the day was far advanced.  She found Prudence sitting by her bedside, and alarmed by the expression of her countenance, anxiously inquired what was the matter?

“Alas! madam,” replied the attendant, “the earl has been taken suddenly ill.  He set out for Wood-street the first thing this morning, and has seen your father, who refuses to receive you.  On his return, he complained of a slight sickness, which has gradually increased in violence, and there can be little doubt it is the plague.  Advice has been sent for.  He prays you not to disturb yourself on his account, but to consider yourself sole mistress of this house, whatever may befall him.”

Amabel passed a miserably anxious day.  A fresh interest had been awakened in her heart in behalf of the earl, and the precarious state in which she conceived him placed did not tend to diminish it.  She made many inquiries after him, and learned that he was worse, while the fearful nature of the attack could not be questioned.  On the following day Prudence reported that the distemper had made such rapid and terrible progress, that his recovery was considered almost hopeless.