was alone she regretted she had left him so precipitately. "The few
precious moments I have thus thrown away may never return," she
thought-the reflection led to misery.

She waited for, nay, almost wished for the summons to depart. She could
not avoid spending the intermediate time with the ladies and Henry; and
the trivial conversations she was obliged to bear a part in harassed her
more than can be well conceived.

The summons came, and the whole party attended her to the vessel. For a
while the remembrance of Ann banished her regret at parting with Henry,
though his pale figure pressed on her sight; it may seem a paradox, but
he was more present to her when she sailed; her tears then were all his
own.

"My poor Ann!" thought Mary, "along this road we came, and near this
spot you called me your guardian angel--and now I leave thee here! ah!
no, I do not--thy spirit is not confined to its mouldering tenement!
Tell me, thou soul of her I love, tell me, ah! whither art thou fled?"
Ann occupied her until they reached the ship.

The anchor was weighed. Nothing can be more irksome than waiting to say
farewel. As the day was serene, they accompanied her a little way, and
then got into the boat; Henry was the last; he pressed her hand, it had
not any life in it; she leaned over the side of the ship without looking
at the boat, till it was so far distant, that she could not see the
countenances of those that were in it: a mist spread itself over her
sight--she longed to exchange one look--tried to recollect the
last;--the universe contained no being but Henry!--The grief of parting
with him had swept all others clean away. Her eyes followed the keel of