n them, and wilder reconciliations. There were
times when, in the heat of passion, they could have stabbed each other.
At all other times they both--Bridget especially--would have willingly
laid down their lives for one another. Bridget's love for her child lay
very deep--deeper than that daughter ever knew; or I should think she
would never have wearied of home as she did, and prayed her mistress to
obtain for her some situation--as waiting-maid--beyond the seas, in
that more cheerful continental life, among the scenes of which so many
of her happiest years had been spent. She thought, as youth thinks,
that life would last for ever, and that two or three years were but a
small portion of it to pass away from her mother, whose only child she
was. Bridget thought differently, but was too proud ever to show what
she felt. If her child wished to leave her, why--she should go. But
people said Bridget became ten years older in the course of two months
at this time. She took it that Mary wanted to leave her. The truth was,
that Mary wanted for a time to leave the place, and to seek some
change, and would thankfully have taken her mother with her. Indeed,
when Madam Starkey had gotten her a situation with some grand lady
abroad, and the time drew near for her to go, it was Mary who clung to
her mother with passionate embrace, and, with floods of tears, declared
that she would never leave her; and it was Bridget, who at last
loosened her arms, and, grave and tearless herself, bade her keep her
word, and go forth into the wide world. Sobbing aloud, and looking back
continually, Mary went away. Bridget was still as death, scarcely
drawing her breath, or closing her stony eyes; till at last she turned
back into her cottage, and heaved a ponderous old settle against the
door. There she sat, motionless, over the grey ashes of her
extinguished fire, deaf to Madam's sweet voice, as she begged leave to
enter and comfort her nurse. Deaf, stony, and motionless, she sat for
more than twenty hours; till, for the third time, Madam came across the
snowy path from the great house, carrying with her a young spaniel,
which had been Mary's pet up at the hall, and which had not ceased all
night long to seek for its absent mistress, and to whine and moan after
her. With tears Madam told this story, through the closed door--tears
excited by the terrible look of anguish, so steady, so immovable--so
the same to-day as it was yesterday--on her nurse's f