Her moistened eyes were lifted up to heaven; a crowd of thoughts darted into her mind, and pressing her hand against her forehead, as if to bear the intellectual weight, she tried, but tried in vain, to arrange them.  “Father of Mercies, compose this troubled spirit:  do I indeed wish it to be composed—­to forget my Henry?” the my, the pen was directly drawn across in an agony.

CHAP.  XX.

The mate of the ship, who heard her stir, came to offer her some refreshment; and she, who formerly received every offer of kindness or civility with pleasure, now shrunk away disgusted:  peevishly she desired him not to disturb her; but the words were hardly articulated when her heart smote her, she called him back, and requested something to drink.  After drinking it, fatigued by her mental exertions, she fell into a death-like slumber, which lasted some hours; but did not refresh her, on the contrary, she awoke languid and stupid.

The wind still continued contrary; a week, a dismal week, had she struggled with her sorrows; and the struggle brought on a slow fever, which sometimes gave her false spirits.

The winds then became very tempestuous, the Great Deep was troubled, and all the passengers appalled.  Mary then left her bed, and went on deck, to survey the contending elements:  the scene accorded with the present state of her soul; she thought in a few hours I may go home; the prisoner may be released.  The vessel rose on a wave and descended into a yawning gulph—­Not slower did her mounting soul return to earth, for—­Ah! her treasure and her heart was there.  The squalls rattled amongst the sails, which were quickly taken down; the wind would then die away, and the wild undirected waves rushed on every side with a tremendous roar.  In a little vessel in the midst of such a storm she was not dismayed; she felt herself independent.

Just then one of the crew perceived a signal of distress; by the help of a glass he could plainly discover a small vessel dismasted, drifted about, for the rudder had been broken by the violence of the storm.  Mary’s thoughts were now all engrossed by the crew on the brink of destruction.  They bore down to the wreck; they reached it, and hailed the trembling wretches; at the sound of the friendly greeting, loud cries of tumultuous joy were mixed with the roaring of the waves, and with ecstatic transport they leaped on the shattered deck, launched their boat in a moment, and committed themselves to the mercy of the sea.  Stowed between two casks, and leaning on a sail, she watched the boat, and when a wave intercepted it from her view—­she ceased to breathe, or rather held her breath until it rose again.

At last the boat arrived safe along-side the ship, and Mary caught the poor trembling wretches as they stumbled into it, and joined them in thanking that gracious Being, who though He had not thought fit to still the raging of the sea, had afforded them unexpected succour.