In a little dwelling in one of the villages near London, lived the mother of Ann; two of her children still remained with her; but they did not resemble Ann.  To her house Mary directed the coach, and told the unfortunate mother of her loss.  The poor woman, oppressed by it, and her many other cares, after an inundation of tears, began to enumerate all her past misfortunes, and present cares.  The heavy tale lasted until midnight, and the impression it made on Mary’s mind was so strong, that it banished sleep till towards morning; when tired nature sought forgetfulness, and the soul ceased to ruminate about many things.

She sent for the poor woman they took up at sea, provided her a lodging, and relieved her present necessities.  A few days were spent in a kind of listless way; then the mother of Ann began to enquire when she thought of returning home.  She had hitherto treated her with the greatest respect, and concealed her wonder at Mary’s choosing a remote room in the house near the garden, and ordering some alterations to be made, as if she intended living in it.

Mary did not choose to explain herself; had Ann lived, it is probable she would never have loved Henry so fondly; but if she had, she could not have talked of her passion to any human creature.  She deliberated, and at last informed the family, that she had a reason for not living with her husband, which must some time remain a secret—­they stared—­Not live with him! how will you live then?  This was a question she could not answer; she had only about eighty pounds remaining, of the money she took with her to Lisbon; when it was exhausted where could she get more?  I will work, she cried, do any thing rather than be a slave.

CHAP.  XXIII.

Unhappy, she wandered about the village, and relieved the poor; it was the only employment that eased her aching heart; she became more intimate with misery—­the misery that rises from poverty and the want of education.  She was in the vicinity of a great city; the vicious poor in and about it must ever grieve a benevolent contemplative mind.

One evening a man who stood weeping in a little lane, near the house she resided in, caught her eye.  She accosted him; in a confused manner, he informed her, that his wife was dying, and his children crying for the bread he could not earn.  Mary desired to be conducted to his habitation; it was not very distant, and was the upper room in an old mansion-house, which had been once the abode of luxury.  Some tattered shreds of rich hangings still remained, covered with cobwebs and filth; round the ceiling, through which the rain drop’d, was a beautiful cornice mouldering; and a spacious gallery was rendered dark by the broken windows being blocked up; through the apertures the wind forced its way in hollow sounds, and reverberated along the former scene of festivity.