ing her head on her daughter's bosom, burst into a flood of tears, fast-flowing, gentle, and refreshing—the first of that kind which she had shed for many a long year. Mary left her no more for the evening, and that night mother and daughter occupied the same bed.
There was a long and sore conflict in Mary's mind the next day, whether or not she, should keep her appointment with her lover. The dreadful story she had heard, had, of course, affected her most deeply, and the thought of going on such an errand so soon after was shocking to her. That very story, she- perceived, her mother had been principally induced to tell from having seen her with a stranger in the wood. And should she disregard her anxious fears, her tender solicitude? Should she, whose whole soul, whose every thought, ought to be concentrated on the desire to lay the balm of consolation on her mother's stricken heart, and to repay by every tender care the sorrows and anxieties she had endured—should she leave her, and at such a time especially, to seek one, a comparative stranger, to whom her mother was unknown, who had never heard the terrible story of her father's death, and to whom that story would have been of no interest, even if he had heard it, except, perhaps, through his love for her. She thought she could not do so. But, on the other hand, he did indeed love her—she was certain of that—and she knew that she dearly loved him. She would have given anything now that she had not promised to meet him again, but she had given her promise, and she felt it would be very wrong to break it. Besides, he would not know her reason for not coming, and could not but think her false, deceitful, and cold-hearted. She fancied, if their positions were reversed, if she were waiting for him, to say one last word of kindness, to take one last parting look, and he were not to come, how bitterly she would feel it! Yes, she would go. But then, her mother! To do so, she must deceive her; unless, indeed, she were to tell her the whole truth. Oh, no! she could not do so now; and that, too, would be a betrayal of her lover's confidence. How, then, should she act? She didn't know. Never had Mary spent so unhappy a day. Fifty times did she make up her mind, and as often changed it. The evening drew on, and still she was uncertain. The appointed time arrived; the sun had set for an hour; it was more than a mile to the place of meeting, yet she was not gone. She was almost sorry for it. She pictured to herself Frederick waiting impatiently for her. She fancied his disappointment, his feelings of certainty that she would come changing into doubt; and the suspicions of the reality of her love, which he had expressed at their last interview, getting at each moment stronger. She wished she had gone, but it was too late now; she wouldn't think any more about it. Yet, she didn't know; by making haste, she might—yes, she would try. And Mary threw on her bonnet and shawl, and hastened forth.
It was a bleak, chilly autumn evening; the wind moaned and howled, as it swept in sudden gusts through the valley, stripping the dead leaves from the trees, or sweeping them up from the ground in whirling clouds: the scud was flying fast overhead, and some stray drops of rain were falling; but Mary hurried on, now running until nearly out of breath, then walking, and then running on again; for she thought she would be as quick as ever she could; she would not even stay a minute
