time, Madam came across the snowy path from the great house, carrying
with her a young spaniel, which had been Mary's pet up at the hall;
and which had not ceased all night long to seek for its absent
mistress, and to whine and moan after her. With tears Madam told
this story, through the closed door--tears excited by the terrible
look of anguish, so steady, so immovable--so the same to-day as it
was yesterday--on her nurse's face. The little creature in her arms
began to utter its piteous cry, as it shivered with the cold.
Bridget stirred; she moved--she listened. Again that long whine; she
thought it was for her daughter; and what she had denied to her
nursling and mistress she granted to the dumb creature that Mary had
cherished. She opened the door, and took the dog from Madam's arms.
Then Madam came in, and kissed and comforted the old woman, who took
but little notice of her or anything. And sending up Master Patrick
to the hall for fire and food, the sweet young lady never left her
nurse all that night. Next day, the Squire himself came down,
carrying a beautiful foreign picture--Our Lady of the Holy Heart, the
Papists call it. It is a picture of the Virgin, her heart pierced
with arrows, each arrow representing one of her great woes. That
picture hung in Bridget's cottage when I first saw her; I have that
picture now.

Years went on. Mary was still abroad. Bridget was still and stern,
instead of active and passionate. The little dog, Mignon, was indeed
her darling. I have heard that she talked to it continually;
although, to most people, she was so silent. The Squire and Madam
treated her with the greatest consideration, and well they might; for
to them she was as devoted and faithful as ever. Mary wrote pretty
often, and seemed satisfied with her life. But at length the letters
ceased--I hardly know whether before or after a great and terrible