picked it out of Mary's servant. "She is a foolish creature, and this
friend that she pays as much attention to as if she was a lady of
quality, is a beggar." "Well, how strange!" cried the girls.

"She is, however, a charming creature," said her nephew. Henry sighed,
and strode across the room once or twice; then took up his violin, and
played the air which first struck Mary; he had often heard her praise
it.

The music was uncommonly melodious, "And came stealing on the senses
like the sweet south." The well-known sounds reached Mary as she sat by
her friend--she listened without knowing that she did--and shed tears
almost without being conscious of it. Ann soon fell asleep, as she had
taken an opiate. Mary, then brooding over her fears, began to imagine
she had deceived herself--Ann was still very ill; hope had beguiled many
heavy hours; yet she was displeased with herself for admitting this
welcome guest.--And she worked up her mind to such a degree of anxiety,
that she determined, once more, to seek medical aid.

No sooner did she determine, than she ran down with a discomposed look,
to enquire of the ladies who she should send for. When she entered the
room she could not articulate her fears--it appeared like pronouncing
Ann's sentence of death; her faultering tongue dropped some broken
words, and she remained silent. The ladies wondered that a person of her
sense should be so little mistress of herself; and began to administer
some common-place comfort, as, that it was our duty to submit to the
will of Heaven, and the like trite consolations, which Mary did not
answer; but waving her hand, with an air of impatience, she exclaimed,
"I cannot live without her!--I have no other friend; if I lose her, what
a desart will the world be to me." "No other friend," re-echoed they,