comfort, not her misery—­her blessing, not her curse.  My child, my child, be merciful!” Longer, more imploring still would she have pleaded, but voice failed, and it was only on those chiselled features the agony of the soul could have been discovered.  Alfred gazed on her thus kneeling at his feet—­his mother, she, who in his infancy had knelt beside him, to guide on high his childish prayers.  The heart of the misguided boy was softened, tears filled his eyes.  He would have spoken; he would have pledged himself to do all that she had asked, when suddenly the ridicule of his companions flashed before his fancy.  Could he bear that?  No; he could see his mother at his feet, but he could not meet the ridicule of the world.  He raised her hastily, but in perfect silence; pressed her to his heart, kissed her cheek repeatedly, then placed her on a couch, and darted from her presence.  He had said no word, he had given no sign; and for several hours that mother could not overcome internal wretchedness so far even as to join her Mary.  He returned to Cambridge.  They parted in affection; seldom had the reckless boy evinced so much emotion as he did when he bade farewell to his mother and sister.  He folded Mary to his bosom, and implored her, in a voice almost inaudible, to take care of her own health for the sake of their mother; but when she entreated him to come and see them in their new abode as soon as he could, he answered not.  Yet that emotion had left a balm on the torn heart of his mother.  She fancied her son, wayward as he was, yet loved her; and though she dared not look forward to his reformation, still, to feel he loved her—­oh, if fresh zeal were required in her prayers, that knowledge gave it.

The first week in May they left Greville Manor.  Still weak and suffering, the struggle to conceal and subdue all she felt at leaving, as she thought for ever, the house of her infancy, of her girlhood, her youth, was almost too much for poor Mary; and her mother more than once believed she would not reach in life the land they were about to seek.  The sea breezes, for they travelled whenever they could along the shore, in a degree nerved her; and by the time they reached Dover, ten days after they had left the Manor, she had rallied sufficiently to ease the sorrowing heart of her mother of a portion of its burden.

They arrived at Dover late in the evening, and early the following day, as Mary sat by the large window of the hotel, watching with some appearance of interest the bustling scene before her, a travelling carriage passed rapidly by and stopped at the entrance.  She knew the livery, and her heart throbbed almost to suffocation, as it whispered that Mr. Hamilton would not come alone.