The dreary solitude of the ensuing day, lengthened by impatiently dwelling on the same idea, was intolerably wearisome.  She listened for the sound of a particular clock, which some directions of the wind allowed her to hear distinctly.  She marked the shadow gaining on the wall; and, twilight thickening into darkness, her breath seemed oppressed while she anxiously counted nine.—­The last sound was a stroke of despair on her heart; for she expected every moment, without seeing Jemima, to have her light extinguished by the savage female who supplied her place.  She was even obliged to prepare for bed, restless as she was, not to disoblige her new attendant.  She had been cautioned not to speak too freely to her; but the caution was needless, her countenance would still more emphatically have made her shrink back.  Such was the ferocity of manner, conspicuous in every word and gesture of this hag, that Maria was afraid to enquire, why Jemima, who had faithfully promised to see her before her door was shut for the night, came not?—­and, when the key turned in the lock, to consign her to a night of suspence, she felt a degree of anguish which the circumstances scarcely justified.

Continually on the watch, the shutting of a door, or the sound of a foot-step, made her start and tremble with apprehension, something like what she felt, when, at her entrance, dragged along the gallery, she began to doubt whether she were not surrounded by demons?

Fatigued by an endless rotation of thought and wild alarms, she looked like a spectre, when Jemima entered in the morning; especially as her eyes darted out of her head, to read in Jemima’s countenance, almost as pallid, the intelligence she dared not trust her tongue to demand.  Jemima put down the tea-things, and appeared very busy in arranging the table.  Maria took up a cup with trembling hand, then forcibly recovering her fortitude, and restraining the convulsive movement which agitated the muscles of her mouth, she said, “Spare yourself the pain of preparing me for your information, I adjure you!—­My child is dead!” Jemima solemnly answered, “Yes;” with a look expressive of compassion and angry emotions.  “Leave me,” added Maria, making a fresh effort to govern her feelings, and hiding her face in her handkerchief, to conceal her anguish—­“It is enough—­I know that my babe is no more—­I will hear the particulars when I am”—­calmer, she could not utter; and Jemima, without importuning her by idle attempts to console her, left the room.

Plunged in the deepest melancholy, she would not admit Darnford’s visits; and such is the force of early associations even on strong minds, that, for a while, she indulged the superstitious notion that she was justly punished by the death of her child, for having for an instant ceased to regret her loss.  Two or three letters from Darnford, full of soothing, manly tenderness, only added poignancy to these accusing emotions; yet the passionate style in which he expressed,