She called herself "a poor disconsolate creature!"--"Mine is a selfish
grief," she exclaimed--"Yet; Heaven is my witness, I do not wish her
back now she has reached those peaceful mansions, where the weary rest.
Her pure spirit is happy; but what a wretch am I!"
Henry forgot his cautious reserve. "Would you allow me to call you
friend?" said he in a hesitating voice. "I feel, dear girl, the tendered
interest in whatever concerns thee." His eyes spoke the rest. They were
both silent a few moments; then Henry resumed the conversation. "I have
also been acquainted with grief! I mourn the loss of a woman who was not
worthy of my regard. Let me give thee some account of the man who now
solicits thy friendship; and who, from motives of the purest
benevolence, wishes to give comfort to thy wounded heart."
"I have myself," said he, mournfully, "shaken hands with happiness, and
am dead to the world; I wait patiently for my dissolution; but, for
thee, Mary, there may be many bright days in store.
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