Maria thought, and thought again. Jemima's humanity had rather been
benumbed than killed, by the keen frost she had to brave at her entrance
into life; an appeal then to her feelings, on this tender point, surely
would not be fruitless; and Maria began to anticipate the delight it
would afford her to gain intelligence of her child. This project was now
the only subject of reflection; and she watched impatiently for the dawn
of day, with that determinate purpose which generally insures success.

At the usual hour, Jemima brought her breakfast, and a tender note from
Darnford. She ran her eye hastily over it, and her heart calmly hoarded
up the rapture a fresh assurance of affection, affection such as she
wished to inspire, gave her, without diverting her mind a moment from
its design. While Jemima waited to take away the breakfast, Maria
alluded to the reflections, that had haunted her during the night to
the exclusion of sleep. She spoke with energy of Jemima's unmerited
sufferings, and of the fate of a number of deserted females, placed
within the sweep of a whirlwind, from which it was next to impossible
to escape. Perceiving the effect her conversation produced on the
countenance of her guard, she grasped the arm of Jemima with that
irresistible warmth which defies repulse, exclaiming--"With your heart,
and such dreadful experience, can you lend your aid to deprive my babe
of a mother's tenderness, a mother's care? In the name of God, assist me
to snatch her from destruction! Let me but give her an education--let me
but prepare her body and mind to encounter the ills which await her sex,
and I will teach her to consider you as her second mother, and herself
as the prop of your age. Yes, Jemima, look at me--observe me closely,
and read my very soul; you merit a better fate;" she held out her hand
with a firm gesture of assurance; "and I will procure it for you, as a
testimony of my esteem, as well as of my gratitude."