indly attempting to conceal from the other the illness
which she felt. Mary was pale, wasted, and drooping; the mother, on the
contrary, was flushed and feverish.

"I wish, my dear mother," said she, "that you would yield to me, and go
to bed: you are certainly worse than you wish us to believe."

"It won't signify, Mary; it's nothing but cold I got, and it will pass
away. I think nothing of myself, but it grieves my heart to see you look
so ill; why don't you strive to keep up your spirits, and to be what
you used to be? But God help you, my poor child," said she, as the tears
started to her eyes, "sure it's hard for you to do so."

"Mother," she replied, "it is hard for me; I am every way surrounded
with deep and hopeless affliction. I often wish that I could lay my
head quietly in the grave; but then, I should wish to do so with my name
unstained--and, on the other hand, what is there that can bind me to
life? I am not afraid of death, but I fear to die now; I know not,
mother, what to do, I am very much to be pitied. Oh," she added, whilst
the tears fell in torrents from her cheeks, "after all, I feel that
nothing but death can still the thoughts that disturb me, and release me
from the anguish that weighs me down and consumes me day by day."

"My dear child," replied her mother, "we must only trust to God, who,
in his own good time, will set everything right. As it is, there is no
respectable person in the neighborhood who believes the falsehood, with
the exception of some of the diabolical Wretch's friends."

Mary here shuddered, and exhibited the strongest possible symptoms of
aversion, even to momentary sickness.

"If," pursued the mother, "the unfortunate impression could be removed
from poor, mistaken Harman, all would be soon right."

The mention of Harman deeply affected the poor girl; she made no reply,
but for some minutes wept in great bitterness.

"Mother," said she, after a little time, "I fear you are concealing
the state of your own health; I am sure, from your flushed face
and oppressive manner of speaking, that you are worse than you think
yourself, or will admit."

"Indeed, to tell the truth, Mary, I fear I am; I feel certainly very
feverish--I am burning."

"Then, for heaven's sake, go to bed, my dear mother; and let the doctor
at once be sent for."

"If I don't get easier soon, I will," replied her mother, "I do not much
like going to bed, it looks so like a fit of sickness."

At th