would return to her old haunts,
retrace her anticipated pleasures--and wonder how they changed their
colour in possession, and proved so futile.

She had not yet found the companion she looked for. Ann and she were not
congenial minds, nor did she contribute to her comfort in the degree she
expected. She shielded her from poverty; but this was only a negative
blessing; when under the pressure it was very grievous, and still more
so were the apprehensions; but when exempt from them, she was not
contented.

Such is human nature, its laws were not to be inverted to gratify our
heroine, and stop the progress of her understanding, happiness only
flourished in paradise--we cannot taste and live.

Another year passed away with increasing apprehensions. Ann had a hectic
cough, and many unfavourable prognostics: Mary then forgot every thing
but the fear of losing her, and even imagined that her recovery would
have made her happy.

Her anxiety led her to study physic, and for some time she only read
books of that cast; and this knowledge, literally speaking, ended in
vanity and vexation of spirit, as it enabled her to foresee what she
could not prevent.

As her mind expanded, her marriage appeared a dreadful misfortune; she
was sometimes reminded of the heavy yoke, and bitter was the
recollection!

In one thing there seemed to be a sympathy between them, for she wrote
formal answers to his as formal letters. An extreme dislike took root in
her mind; the found of his name made her turn sick; but she forgot all,
listening to Ann's cough, and supporting her languid frame. She would
then catch her to her bosom with convulsive eagerness, as if to save her
from sinking into an opening grave.

CHAP. VII.

It was the will of Providence that Mary should experience almost every
species of sorrow. Her father was thrown from his horse, when his blood
was in a very inflammatory state, and the bruises were very dangerous;
his recovery was not expected by the physical tribe.

Terrified at seeing him so near death, and yet so ill prepared for it,
his daughter sat by his bed, oppressed by the keenest anguish, which her
piety increased.

Her grief had nothing selfish in it; he was not a friend or protector;
but he was her father, an unhappy wretch, going into eternity, depraved
and thoughtless. Could a life of sensuality be a preparation for a
peaceful death? Thus meditating, she passed the still midnight hour by
his bedside