As she drew near the
house, her wonted presence of mind returned: after this suspension of
thought, a thousand darted into her mind,--her dying mother,--her
friend's miserable situation,--and an extreme horror at taking--at being
forced to take, such a hasty step; but she did not feel the disgust, the
reluctance, which arises from a prior attachment.
She loved Ann better than any one in the world--to snatch her from the
very jaws of destruction--she would have encountered a lion. To have
this friend constantly with her; to make her mind easy with respect to
her family, would it not be superlative bliss?
Full of these thoughts she entered her mother's chamber, but they then
fled at the sight of a dying parent. She went to her, took her hand; it
feebly pressed her's. "My child," said the languid mother: the words
reached her heart; she had seldom heard them pronounced with accents
denoting affection; "My child, I have not always treated you with
kindness--God forgive me! do you?"--Mary's tears strayed in a
disregarded stream; on her bosom the big drops fell, but did not relieve
the fluttering tenant.
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