struggles she endured to combat and conceal it, she felt, she said, as if all the wheels and springs of the animal machine worked at double rate, and were fast consuming themselves.  Sleep was not sleep, for her waking thoughts, bridled by some remains of reason, and by the sight of her children happy and in health, were then transformed to wild dreams, all her terrors were realized, all her fears received their dread fulfilment.  To this state there was no hope, no alleviation, unless the grave should quickly receive its destined prey, and she be permitted to die, before she experienced a thousand living deaths in the loss of those she loved.  Fearing to give me pain, she hid as best she could the excess of her wretchedness, but meeting thus her brother after a long absence, she could not restrain the expression of her woe, but with all the vividness of imagination with which misery is always replete, she poured out the emotions of her heart to her beloved and sympathizing Adrian.

Her present visit to London tended to augment her state of inquietude, by shewing in its utmost extent the ravages occasioned by pestilence.  It hardly preserved the appearance of an inhabited city; grass sprung up thick in the streets; the squares were weed-grown, the houses were shut up, while silence and loneliness characterized the busiest parts of the town.  Yet in the midst of desolation Adrian had preserved order; and each one continued to live according to law and custom—­human institutions thus surviving as it were divine ones, and while the decree of population was abrogated, property continued sacred.  It was a melancholy reflection; and in spite of the diminution of evil produced, it struck on the heart as a wretched mockery.  All idea of resort for pleasure, of theatres and festivals had passed away.  “Next summer,” said Adrian as we parted on our return to Windsor, “will decide the fate of the human race.  I shall not pause in my exertions until that time; but, if plague revives with the coming year, all contest with her must cease, and our only occupation be the choice of a grave.”

I must not forget one incident that occurred during this visit to London.  The visits of Merrival to Windsor, before frequent, had suddenly ceased.  At this time where but a hair’s line separated the living from the dead, I feared that our friend had become a victim to the all-embracing evil.  On this occasion I went, dreading the worst, to his dwelling, to see if I could be of any service to those of his family who might have survived.  The house was deserted, and had been one of those assigned to the invading strangers quartered in London.  I saw his astronomical instruments put to strange uses, his globes defaced, his papers covered with abstruse calculations destroyed.  The neighbours could tell me little, till I lighted on a poor woman who acted as nurse in these perilous times.  She told me that all the family were dead, except Merrival himself, who had gone mad—­ mad, she called it, yet