d,
Amabel's reason would be restored. But it was not so. Her faculties were
completely shaken, and the cause of her affliction being effaced from
her memory, she now spoke of the Earl of Rochester with her former
affection.

Her betrayer once ventured into her presence, but he did not repeat the
visit. Her looks and her tenderness were more than even _his_ firmness
could bear, and he hurried away to hide his emotion from the attendants.
Several days passed on, and as no improvement took place, the earl, who
began to find the stings of conscience too sharp for further endurance,
resolved to try to deaden the pangs by again plunging into the
dissipation of the court. Prudence had been seized by the plague, and
removed to the pest-house, and not knowing to whom to entrust Amabel, it
at last occurred to him that Judith Malmayns would be a fitting person,
and he accordingly sent for her from Saint Paul's, and communicated his
wishes to her, offering her a considerable reward for the service.
Judith readily undertook the office, and the earl delayed his departure
for two days, to see how all went on; and finding the arrangements, to
all appearances, answer perfectly, he departed with Etherege and
Pillichody.

Ever since the communication of the fatal truth had been made to her by
the earl, his unfortunate victim had occupied the large oak-panelled
chamber, on entering which so sad a presentiment had seized her; and she
had never quitted the bed where she thought she would breathe her last.
On the night of Rochester's departure she made many inquiries concerning
him from Judith Malmayns, who was seated in an old broad-cushioned,
velvet-covered chair, beside her, and was told that the king required
his attendance at Oxford, but that he would soon return. At this answer
the tears gathered thickly in Amabel's dark eyelashes, and she remained
silent. By-and-by she resumed the conversation.

"Do you know, nurse," she said, with a look of extreme anxiety, "I have
forgotten my prayers. Repeat them to me, and I will say them after you."

"My memory is as bad as your ladyship's," replied Judith,
contemptuously. "It is so long since I said mine, that I have quite
forgotten them."

"That is wrong in you," returned Amabel, "very wrong. When I lived with
my dear father, we had prayers morning and evening, and I was never so
happy as then. I feel it would do me good if I could pray as I used to
do."

"Well, well, all in good time,"