“We shall soon meet,” said he, with a faint smile; Mary smiled too; she caught the sickly beam; it was still fainter by being reflected, and not knowing what she wished to do, started up and left the room.  When she was alone she regretted she had left him so precipitately.  “The few precious moments I have thus thrown away may never return,” she thought-the reflection led to misery.

She waited for, nay, almost wished for the summons to depart.  She could not avoid spending the intermediate time with the ladies and Henry; and the trivial conversations she was obliged to bear a part in harassed her more than can be well conceived.

The summons came, and the whole party attended her to the vessel.  For a while the remembrance of Ann banished her regret at parting with Henry, though his pale figure pressed on her sight; it may seem a paradox, but he was more present to her when she sailed; her tears then were all his own.

“My poor Ann!” thought Mary, “along this road we came, and near this spot you called me your guardian angel—­and now I leave thee here! ah! no, I do not—­thy spirit is not confined to its mouldering tenement!  Tell me, thou soul of her I love, tell me, ah! whither art thou fled?” Ann occupied her until they reached the ship.

The anchor was weighed.  Nothing can be more irksome than waiting to say farewel.  As the day was serene, they accompanied her a little way, and then got into the boat; Henry was the last; he pressed her hand, it had not any life in it; she leaned over the side of the ship without looking at the boat, till it was so far distant, that she could not see the countenances of those that were in it:  a mist spread itself over her sight—­she longed to exchange one look—­tried to recollect the last;—­the universe contained no being but Henry!—­The grief of parting with him had swept all others clean away.  Her eyes followed the keel of the boat, and when she could no longer perceive its traces:  she looked round on the wide waste of waters, thought of the precious moments which had been stolen from the waste of murdered time.

She then descended into the cabin, regardless of the surrounding beauties of nature, and throwing herself on her bed in the little hole which was called the state-room—­she wished to forget her existence.  On this bed she remained two days, listening to the dashing waves, unable to close her eyes.  A small taper made the darkness visible; and the third night, by its glimmering light, she wrote the following fragment.

“Poor solitary wretch that I am; here alone do I listen to the whistling winds and dashing waves;—­on no human support can I rest—­when not lost to hope I found pleasure in the society of those rough beings; but now they appear not like my fellow creatures; no social ties draw me to them.  How long, how dreary has this day been; yet I scarcely wish it over—­for what will to-morrow bring—­to-morrow, and to-morrow will only be marked with unvaried characters of wretchedness.—­Yet surely, I am not alone!”