seemed to know the absurdity of this reply; but that was of no
consequence. It added to the measure of my distraction. A little after
seven I intreated a friend to go for Mr. Carlisle, and bring him
instantly wherever he was to be found. He had voluntarily called on the
patient on the preceding Saturday, and two or three times since. He had
seen her that morning, and had been earnest in recommending the
wine-diet. That day he dined four miles out of town, on the side of the
metropolis, which was furthest from us. Notwithstanding this, my friend
returned with him after three-quarters of an hour's absence. No one who
knows my friend, will wonder either at his eagerness or success, when I
name Mr. Basil Montagu. The sight of Mr. Carlisle thus unexpectedly,
gave me a stronger alleviating sensation, than I thought it possible to
experience.

Mr. Carlisle left us no more from Wednesday evening, to the hour of her
death. It was impossible to exceed his kindness and affectionate
attention. It excited in every spectator a sentiment like adoration.
His conduct was uniformly tender and anxious, ever upon the watch,
observing every symptom, and eager to improve every favourable
appearance. If skill or attention could have saved her, Mary would still
live. In addition to Mr. Carlisle's constant presence, she had Dr.
Fordyce and Dr. Clarke every day. She had for nurses, or rather for
friends, watching every occasion to serve her, Mrs. Fenwick, author of
an excellent novel, entitled Secrecy, another very kind and judicious
lady, and a favourite female servant. I was scarcely ever out of the
room. Four friends, Mr. Fenwick, Mr. Basil Montagu, Mr. Marshal, and Mr.
Dyson, sat up nearly the whole of the last week of her existence in the
house, to be dispatched, on any errand, to any part of the metropolis,
at a moment's warning.