Mrs. Thorndyke’s health rapidly declined.  The woman Wareing, touched possibly by sympathy or remorse, exhibited considerable tenderness and compassion towards the invalid; made her nourishing drinks, and administered the medicine prescribed by the village practitioner—­who, after much delay and pooh, poohing by Thorndyke, had been called in—­with her own hands.  About three weeks previous to Mrs. Thorndyke’s death, a sort of reconciliation was patched up through her instrumentality between the husband and wife; and an unwonted expression of kindness and compassion, real or simulated, sat upon Thorndyke’s features every time he approached the dying woman.

The sands of life ebbed swiftly with Mrs. Thorndyke.  Infolded in the gentle but deadly embrace with which consumption seizes its victims, she wasted rapidly away; and, most perplexing symptoms of all, violent retchings and nausea, especially after taking her medicine—­which, according to Davis, the village surgeon, was invariable of a sedative character—­aggravated and confirmed the fatal disease which was hurrying her to the tomb.

Not once during this last illness could Mary Woodley, by chance or stratagem, obtain a moment’s private interview with her mother, until a few minutes before her decease.  Until then, under one pretence or another, either Elizabeth Wareing, one of Thorndyke’s daughters, or Thorndyke himself, was always present in the sick-chamber.  It was evening:  darkness had for some time fallen:  no light had yet been taken into the dying woman’s apartment; and the pale starlight which faintly illumined the room served, as Mary Woodley softly approached on tiptoe to the bedside of her, as she supposed, sleeping parent, but to deepen by defining the shadows thrown by the full, heavy hangings, and the old massive furniture.  Gently, and with a beating heart, Mary Woodley drew back the bed-curtain nearest the window.  The feeble, uncertain light flickered upon the countenance, distinct in its mortal paleness, of her parent:  the eyes recognized her, and a glance of infinite tenderness gleamed for an instant in the rapidly-darkening orbs:  the right arm essayed to lift itself, as for one fast, last embrace.  Vainly!  Love, love only, was strong, stronger than death, in the expiring mother’s heart, and the arm fell feebly back on the bedclothes.  Mary Woodley bent down in eager grief, for she felt instinctively that the bitter hour at last was come:  their lips met, and the last accents of the mother murmured, “Beloved Mary, I—­I have been true to you—­no will—­no”—­A slight tremor shook her frame:  the spirit that looked in love from the windows of the eyes departed on its heavenward journey, and the unconscious shell only of what had once been her mother remained in the sobbing daughter’s arms.