"Poor Mary!" said she to herself. "Shall I waken her, to feel her sorrow
sharpened by my happiness? No; I will keep it within my own bosom till
the morrow."

She approached the bed, to discover if Mary's sleep were peaceful. Her
face was turned partly inward to the pillow, and had been hidden there to
weep; but a look of motionless contentment was now visible upon it, as if
her heart, like a deep lake, had grown calm because its dead had sunk
down so far within. Happy is it, and strange, that the lighter sorrows
are those from which dreams are chiefly fabricated. Margaret shrunk from
disturbing her sister-in-law, and felt as if her own better fortune had
rendered her involuntarily unfaithful, and as if altered and diminished
affection must be the consequence of the disclosure she had to make.
With a sudden step she turned away. But joy could not long be repressed,
even by circumstances that would have excited heavy grief at another
moment. Her mind was thronged with delightful thoughts, till sleep stole
on, and transformed them to visions, more delightful and more wild, like
the breath of winter (but what a cold comparison!) working fantastic
tracery upon a window.

When the night was far advanced, Mary awoke with a sudden start. A vivid
dream had latterly involved her in its unreal life, of which, however,
she could only remember that it had been broken in upon at the most
interesting point. For a little time, slumber hung about her like a
morning mist, hindering her from perceiving the distinct outline of her
situation. She listened with imperfect consciousness to two or three
volleys of a rapid and eager knocking; and first she deemed the noise a
matter of course, like the breath she drew; next, it appeared a thing in
which she had no concern; and lastly, she became aware that it was a
summons necessary to be obeyed. At the same moment, the pang of