s suffering
the consequences. Once her mind was at rest, she made what amends she
could by exercise in the bracing winter air, in defiance of dirt and
intense cold, and by social relaxation, at least such as could be had
while the guillotine was executing daily tasks to the tune of _Ca ira_,
and women were madly turning in the mazes of the _Carmagnole_. Though she
could not boast of being quite recovered, she was soon able to report to
Imlay, "I am so _lightsome_, that I think it will not go badly with me."
Her health sufficiently restored, and an escort--the excited condition of
the country making one more than usually indispensable--having been
found, she began her welcome journey. It was doubly welcome. One could
breathe more freely away from Paris, the seat of the Reign of Terror,
where the Revolution, as Vergniaud said, was, Saturn-like, devouring its
own children; and for Mary the journey had likewise the positive pleasure
of giving her her heart's desire. Before Imlay's warm assurances of his
love, her uneasiness melted away as quickly as the snow at the first
breath of spring. How completely, is shown in this extract from a letter
in which she prepared him for her coming:--

"You have by your tenderness and worth twisted yourself more
artfully round my heart than I supposed possible. Let me indulge
the thought that I have thrown out some tendrils to cling to the
elm by which I wish to be supported. This is talking a new language
for me! But, knowing that I am not a parasite-plant, I am willing
to receive the proofs of affection that every pulse replies to when
I think of being once more in the same house with you. God bless
you!"

She arrived in Havre in the February of 1794. About a fortnight later
Imlay left for Paris, but many proofs of his affection had greeted her,
and during these few days he had completely calmed her fears. Judging
from the letters she sent him during this absence, he must have been as
lover-like as in the first happy days of their union. One was written the
very day after his departure:--

HAVRE, _Thursday morning_, March 12.

We are such creatures of habit, my love, that, though I cannot say
I was sorry, childishly so, for your going, when I knew that you
were to stay such a short time, and I had a plan of employment, yet
I could not sleep. I turned to your side of the bed, and tried to
make the most of the comf