Mother, but ſuch a letter as almoſt broke my heart. In it ſhe acquaints me, that my, Father had been dead near a twelvemonth; and that ſhe herſelf then lay upon a ſick bed, from whence ſhe had ſcarce any hopes of being raiſed. That my behaviour had brought her near to the grave, and that the daily reflection on my ſhame and miſery had well nigh broke her heart. But the information of my repentance had partly revived her; and that as ſhe before ſuſpected I was amongſt the moſt abandoned, ſo now the continuance of my good behaviour could alone prolong her life.— I need not tell you, that I replied with all affection to this. Some other letters paſſed; and in about two months time, my dear, dear mother, came to the Magdalen-Houſe to viſit me!
But how can I deſcribe that meeting! Shame and ſorrow rendered me a ſtatue: maternal affection, mingled grief and joy, stopped all her power of utterance! She clang round my neck, I tenderly embraced her, and felt upon my knees imploring forgiveneſs! ſhe burſt into tears, and all ſhe could ſay was, “Oh my child, my child ! my unhappy child!— oh my dear Maria— my child, my child!”—
Thus, was I reconciled to the tendereſt of mothers: and the account ſhe heard of my behaviour had ſuch an influence upon her health, that ſhe grew every day better and better.
