not such vulgar comfort, nor will I accept it. I never wanted but
your heart. That gone, you have nothing more to give. Had I only
poverty to fear, I should not shrink from life. Forgive me, then,
if I say that I shall consider any direct or indirect attempt to
supply my necessities as an insult which I have not merited, and as
rather done out of tenderness for your own reputation than for me.
Do not mistake me. I do not think that you value money; therefore I
will not accept what you do not care for, though I do much less,
because certain privations are not painful to me. When I am dead,
respect for yourself will make you take care of the child.

"I write with difficulty; probably I shall never write to you
again. Adieu!

"God bless you!"

Imlay, whose departure to his other house Mary construed into abandonment
of her, made, in spite of this letter, many inquiries as to her health
and tranquillity, repeated his offers of pecuniary assistance, and, at
the request of mutual acquaintances, even went to see her. But a _show_
of interest was not what she wanted, and her thanks for it was the
assurance that before long she would be where he would be saved the
trouble of either talking or thinking of her. Fortunately Mr. Johnson and
her other friends interfered actively in her behalf, and by their
arguments and representations prevailed upon her to relinquish the idea
of suicide. Through their kindness, the fever which consumed her was
somewhat abated. Her temporary madness over, she again remembered her
responsibility as a mother, and realized that true courage consists in
facing a foe, and not in flying from it. Of the change in her intentions
for the future she informed Imlay:--

LONDON, November, 1795.

Mr. Johnson having forgot to desire you to send the things of mine
which were left at the house, I have to request you to let
Marguerite bring them to me.

I shall go this evening to the lodging; so you need not be
restrained from coming here to transact your business. And whatever
I may think and feel, you need not fear that I shall publicly
complain. No! If I have any criterion to judge of right and wrong,
I have been most ungenerously treated; but wishing now only to hide
myself, I shall be silent as the grave in which I long to forget
myself. I shall protect and provide for my child. I only mea