‘It is my duty to go to papa,’ said Mary.  ’What would be selfish could not turn out well.’

’If you could be sure of his feelings—­if he were only less strangely youthful—­No,’ she added, breaking off, as if rebuking herself, ’it is not to be thought of, but I do not wonder at you, my poor Mary—­I never saw any one so engaging, nor in whom I could place such confidence.’

‘I am so glad!’ said Mary, gratefully.  ’You used not to have that confidence.’

’I feared his being led.  Now I feel as sure as any one can dare of his goodness.  But I have been talking to him about self-reliance and consistency.  He is so devoid of ambition, and so inert and diffident when not in an impetuous fit, that I dread his doing no good as well as no evil.’

Mary shook her head.  Did she repress the expression of the sense that her arm had sometimes given him steadiness and fixed his aim?’

‘The resemblance to his mother struck me more than ever,’ continued Mrs. Ponsonby.  ’There is far more mind and soul, but almost the same nature—­all bright, indolent sweetness, craving for something to lean on, but he shows what she might have been with the same principles.  Dear boy! may he do well!’

‘He will be very happy with Miss Conway,’ said Mary.  ’She will learn to appreciate all he says and does—­her enthusiasm will spur him on.  I shall hear of them.’

The unbreathed sigh seemed to be added to the weight of oppression on Mary’s patient breast; but she kept her eye steady, her brow unruffled.

All the joys did indeed appear to be passing from her with her mother, and she felt as if she should never know another hour of gladness, nor of rest in full free open-hearted confidence, but she could not dwell either on herself or on the future, and each hour that her mother was spared to her was too precious to be wasted or profaned by aught that was personal.

Mrs. Ponsonby herself realized the weary soon to be at rest, the harassed well nigh beyond the reach of troubling.  She treated each earthly care and interest as though there were peace in laying it down for the last time.  At intervals, as she was able, she wrote a long letter to her husband, to accompany the tidings of her death; and she held several conversations with Mary on her conduct for the future.  She hoped much from Mary’s influence, for Mr. Ponsonby was fond of his daughter, and would not willingly display himself in his worst colours before her; and Mary’s steadiness of spirits and nerves might succeed, where her own liability to tears and trembling had always been a provocation.  Her want of judgment in openly preferring her own relations to his uncongenial sister had sown seeds of estrangement and discord which had given Mrs. Ponsonby some cause for self-reproach, and she felt great hope that her daughter would prevail where she had failed.  There was little danger that he would not show Mary affection enough to make her home-duties labours of love; and at her age, and with her disposition, she could both take care of herself, and be an unconscious restraint on her father.  The trust and hope that she would be the means of weaning her father from evil, and bringing him home a changed man, was Mrs. Ponsonby’s last bright vision.