CHAP. XXIX.


She found Henry very ill. The physician had some weeks before declared
he never knew a person with a similar pulse recover. Henry was certain
he could not live long; all the rest he could obtain, was procured by
opiates. Mary now enjoyed the melancholy pleasure of nursing him, and
softened by her tenderness the pains she could not remove. Every sigh
did she stifle, every tear restrain, when he could see or hear them. She
would boast of her resignation--yet catch eagerly at the least ray of
hope. While he slept she would support his pillow, and rest her head
where she could feel his breath. She loved him better than herself--she
could not pray for his recovery; she could only say, The will of Heaven
be done.

While she was in this state, she labored to acquire fortitude; but one
tender look destroyed it all--she rather labored, indeed, to make him
believe he was resigned, than really to be so.

She wished to receive the sacrament with him, as a bond of union which
was to extend beyond the grave. She did so, and received comfort from
it; she rose above her misery.

His end was now approaching. Mary sat on the side of the bed. His eyes
appeared fixed--no longer agitated by passion, he only felt that it was
a fearful thing to die. The soul retired to the citadel; but it was not
now solely filled by the image of her who in silent despair watched for