er's
groans, and the wind which rushed through the passage. Mary was
petrified; but soon assuming more courage, approached the bed, and,
regardless of the surrounding nastiness, knelt down by the poor wretch,
and breathed the most poisonous air; for the unfortunate creature was
dying of a putrid fever, the consequence of dirt and want.

Their state did not require much explanation. Mary sent the husband for
a poor neighbour, whom she hired to nurse the woman, and take care of
the children; and then went herself to buy them some necessaries at a
shop not far distant. Her knowledge of physic had enabled her to
prescribe for the woman; and she left the house, with a mixture of
horror and satisfaction.

She visited them every day, and procured them every comfort; contrary to
her expectation, the woman began to recover; cleanliness and wholesome
food had a wonderful effect; and Mary saw her rising as it were from the
grave. Not aware of the danger she ran into, she did not think of it
till she perceived she had caught the fever. It made such an alarming
progress, that she was prevailed on to send for a physician; but the
disorder was so violent, that for some days it baffled his skill; and
Mary felt not her danger, as she was delirious. After the crisis, the
symptoms were more favourable, and she slowly recovered, without
regaining much strength or spirits; indeed they were intolerably low:
she wanted a tender nurse.

For some time she had observed, that she was not treated with the same
respect as formerly; her favors were forgotten when no more were
expected. This ingratitude hurt her, as did a similar instance in the
woman who came out of the ship. Mary had hitherto supported her; as her
finances were growing low, she hinted to her, that she ought to try to
earn her own subsistence: the woman in return loaded her with abuse.

Two months were elapsed; she had not seen, or heard from Henry. He was
sick--nay, perhaps had forgotten her; all the world was dreary, and all
the people ungrateful.

She sunk into apathy, and endeavouring to rouse herself out of it, she
wrote in her book another fragment:

"Surely life is a dream, a frightful one! and after those rude,
disjointed images are fled, will light ever break in? Shall I ever feel
joy? Do all suffer like me; or am I framed so as to be particularly
susceptible of misery? It is true, I have experienced the most rapturous
emotions--short-lived delight!--ethereal beam, w