Her thoughts flew rapidly to something.  I could be happy listening to him, soothing his cares.—­Would he not smile upon me—­call me his own Mary?  I am not his—­said she with fierceness—­I am a wretch! and she heaved a sigh that almost broke her heart, while the big tears rolled down her burning cheeks; but still her exercised mind, accustomed to think, began to observe its operation, though the barrier of reason was almost carried away, and all the faculties not restrained by her, were running into confusion.  Wherefore am I made thus?  Vain are my efforts—­I cannot live without loving—­and love leads to madness.—­Yet I will not weep; and her eyes were now fixed by despair, dry and motionless; and then quickly whirled about with a look of distraction.

She looked for hope; but found none—­all was troubled waters.—­No where could she find rest.  I have already paced to and fro in the earth; it is not my abiding place—­may I not too go home!  Ah! no.  Is this complying with my Henry’s request, could a spirit thus disengaged expect to associate with his?  Tears of tenderness strayed down her relaxed countenance, and her softened heart heaved more regularly.  She felt the rain, and turned to her solitary home.

Fatigued by the tumultuous emotions she had endured, when she entered the house she ran to her own room, sunk on the bed; and exhausted nature soon closed her eyes; but active fancy was still awake, and a thousand fearful dreams interrupted her slumbers.

Feverish and languid, she opened her eyes, and saw the unwelcome sun dart his rays through a window, the curtains of which she had forgotten to draw.  The dew hung on the adjacent trees, and added to the lustre; the little robin began his song, and distant birds joined.  She looked; her countenance was still vacant—­her sensibility was absorbed by one object.

Did I ever admire the rising sun, she slightly thought, turning from the Window, and shutting her eyes:  she recalled to view the last night’s scene.  His faltering voice, lingering step, and the look of tender woe, were all graven on her heart; as were the words “Could these arms shield thee from sorrow—­afford thee an asylum from an unfeeling world.”  The pressure to his bosom was not forgot.  For a moment she was happy; but in a long-drawn sigh every delightful sensation evaporated.  Soon—­yes, very soon, will the grave again receive all I love! and the remnant of my days—­she could not proceed—­Were there then days to come after that?

CHAP.  XXVIII.

Just as she was going to quit her room, to visit Henry, his mother called on her.

“My son is worse to-day,” said she, “I come to request you to spend not only this day, but a week or two with me.—­Why should I conceal any thing from you?  Last night my child made his mother his confident, and, in the anguish of his heart, requested me to be thy friend—­when I shall be childless.  I will not attempt to describe what I felt when he talked thus to me.  If I am to lose the support of my age, and be again a widow—­may I call her Child whom my Henry wishes me to adopt?”