l his
own.

"My poor Ann!" thought Mary, "along this road we came, and near this
spot you called me your guardian angel--and now I leave thee here! ah!
no, I do not--thy spirit is not confined to its mouldering tenement!
Tell me, thou soul of her I love, tell me, ah! whither art thou fled?"
Ann occupied her until they reached the ship.

The anchor was weighed. Nothing can be more irksome than waiting to say
farewel. As the day was serene, they accompanied her a little way, and
then got into the boat; Henry was the last; he pressed her hand, it had
not any life in it; she leaned over the side of the ship without looking
at the boat, till it was so far distant, that she could not see the
countenances of those that were in it: a mist spread itself over her
sight--she longed to exchange one look--tried to recollect the
last;--the universe contained no being but Henry!--The grief of parting
with him had swept all others clean away. Her eyes followed the keel of
the boat, and when she could no longer perceive its traces: she looked
round on the wide waste of waters, thought of the precious moments
which had been stolen from the waste of murdered time.

She then descended into the cabin, regardless of the surrounding
beauties of nature, and throwing herself on her bed in the little hole
which was called the state-room--she wished to forget her existence. On
this bed she remained two days, listening to the dashing waves, unable
to close her eyes. A small taper made the darkness visible; and the
third night, by its glimmering light, she wrote the following fragment.

"Poor solitary wretch that I am; here alone do I listen to the whistling
winds and dashing waves;--on no human support can I rest--when not lost
to hope I found pleasure in the society of those rough beings; but now
they appear not like my fellow creatures; no social ties draw me to
them. How long, how dreary has this day been; yet I scarcely wish it
over--for what will to-morrow bring--to-morrow, and to-morrow will only
be marked with unvaried characters of wretchedness.--Yet surely, I am
not alone!"

Her moistened eyes were lifted up to heaven; a crowd of thoughts darted
into her mind, and pressing her hand against her forehead, as if to bear
the intellectual weight, she tried, but tried in vain, to arrange them.
"Father of Mercies, compose this troubled spirit: do I indeed wish it to
be composed--to forget my Henry?" the _my_, the pen was directly drawn
acr