This new instance of Henry’s disinterested affection, Mary felt most forcibly; and striving to restrain the complicated emotions, and sooth the wretched mother, she almost fainted:  when the unhappy parent forced tears from her, by saying, “I deserve this blow; my partial fondness made me neglect him, when most he wanted a mother’s care; this neglect, perhaps, first injured his constitution:  righteous Heaven has made my crime its own punishment; and now I am indeed a mother, I shall loss my child—­my only child!”

When they were a little more composed they hastened to the invalide; but during the short ride, the mother related several instances of Henry’s goodness of heart.  Mary’s tears were not those of unmixed anguish; the display of his virtues gave her extreme delight—­yet human nature prevailed; she trembled to think they would soon unfold themselves in a more genial clime.

CHAP.  XXIX.

She found Henry very ill.  The physician had some weeks before declared he never knew a person with a similar pulse recover.  Henry was certain he could not live long; all the rest he could obtain, was procured by opiates.  Mary now enjoyed the melancholy pleasure of nursing him, and softened by her tenderness the pains she could not remove.  Every sigh did she stifle, every tear restrain, when he could see or hear them.  She would boast of her resignation—­yet catch eagerly at the least ray of hope.  While he slept she would support his pillow, and rest her head where she could feel his breath.  She loved him better than herself—­she could not pray for his recovery; she could only say, The will of Heaven be done.

While she was in this state, she labored to acquire fortitude; but one tender look destroyed it all—­she rather labored, indeed, to make him believe he was resigned, than really to be so.

She wished to receive the sacrament with him, as a bond of union which was to extend beyond the grave.  She did so, and received comfort from it; she rose above her misery.

His end was now approaching.  Mary sat on the side of the bed.  His eyes appeared fixed—­no longer agitated by passion, he only felt that it was a fearful thing to die.  The soul retired to the citadel; but it was not now solely filled by the image of her who in silent despair watched for his last breath.  Collected, a frightful calmness stilled every turbulent emotion.

The mother’s grief was more audible.  Henry had for some time only attended to Mary—­Mary pitied the parent, whose stings of conscience increased her sorrow; she whispered him, “Thy mother weeps, disregarded by thee; oh! comfort her!—­My mother, thy son blesses thee.—­” The oppressed parent left the room.  And Mary waited to see him die.

She pressed with trembling eagerness his parched lips—­he opened his eyes again; the spreading film retired, and love returned them—­he gave a look—­it was never forgotten.  My Mary, will you be comforted?