He gave them discussions of doctrine, or dry
moral essays, which were as stones to them
when they wanted the bread of consolation
and the wine of hope. Here and there,
women said it really was too much for their
spirits to go to church, and they staid away;
and the boys and girls took the opportunity
to go spying upon the rabbits. It was such
boys and girls that gave news of Mr. Finch
during the week. Every morning, he was so
busy over his books in his study, that it was
no easy matter to get a sight of him; and
every fine afternoon he went quietly, by a                                                                              byepath,to a certain spot on the moor, where                                                                        an ostler from the Cross Keys at O—- was                                                                                awaiting him with the horse on which he took long
rides over the hills. Mr. Finch was taking care
of his health.

CHAPTER II.

"Can I have a chaise? " inquired a young
lady, on being set down by the coach at the
Cross Keys, at O——.

"Yes, ma'am, certainly," replied the neat
landlady.

"How far do you call it to Bleaburn?"

"To Bleaburn, ma'am! It is six miles.
But, ma'am, you are not going to Bleaburn,
surely."

"Indeed I am. Why not?"

"Because of the fever, ma'am. There never
was anything heard of like it. You cannot
go there, I assure you, ma'am, and I could
not think of sending a chaise there. Neither
of my post-boys would go."

"One of them shall take me as near as is
safe, then. I dare say we shall find somebody
who will take care of my little trunk till I
can send for it."

"The cordon would take care of your trunk,
if that were all, but —"

"The what?" interrupted the young lady.

"The cordon, they call it, ma'am. To
preserve ourselves, we have set people to
watch on the moor above, to prevent anybody
from Bleaburn coming among us, to spread
the fever. Ma'am, it is worse than anything
you ever heard of."

"Not worse than the plague," thought Mary
Pickard, in whose mind now rose up all she
had read and heard of the horrors of the great
plague, and all the longing she had felt when
a child to have been a clergyman at such a
time, or at least, a physician, to give comfort
to numbers in their extremity.

"Indeed, ma'am," resumed the landlady,
"you cannot go there. By what I hear, there
are very few now that are not dead, or down
in the fever."

"Then they will want me the more," said
Mary Pickard. " I must go and see my aunt.
I wrote to her that I should go; and she may
want me more than I thought."

"Have you an aunt living at Bleaburn?"
asked the landlady, in some surprise. " I did
not know that there was any lady living at
Bleaburn. I thought they had been all poor
people there."

"I believe my aunt is poor," said Mary. " I
have heard nothing of her for several years,                                                                    except merely that she was living at Bleaburn.
She had the education of a gentlewoman; but
I believe her husband became a common
labourer before he died. I am from America,
and my name is Mary Pickard, and my aunt's
name is Johnson; and I shall be glad if you
can tell me anything about her, if this fever
is really raging as you say. I must see her
before I go home to America."

"You see, ma'am, if you go," said the                                                                                landlady, contemplating the little trunk, " you                                                                        will not be able to come away again while the
fever lasts."

"And you think I shall not have clothes
enough," said Mary, smiling. " I packed my
box for a week only, but I dare say I can
manage. If everybody was ill, I could wash
my clothes myself. I have done such a thing
with less reason. Or, I could send to London
for more. I suppose one can get at a                                                                                 post-office."

"Through the cordon, I dare say you might,
ma'am. But, really, I don't know that there is
anybody at Bleaburn that can write a letter,
except the clergyman and the doctor and one
or two more."

"My aunt can," said Mary, "and it is
because she does not answer our letters, that
I am so anxious to see her. You did not tell
me whether you know her name ,—Johnson."

"A widow, I think you said, ma'am." And
the landlady called to the ostler to ask him if
he knew anything of a Widow Johnson, who
lived at Bleaburn. Will Ostler said there was
a woman of that name who was the mother of
Silly Jem. " Might that be she? " Mary had
never heard of Silly Jem; but when she
found that Widow Johnson had a daughter,
some years married, that she had white hair,
and strong black eyes, and a strong face
altogether, and that she seldom spoke, she
had little doubt that one so like certain of her
relations was her aunt. The end of it was
that Mary went to Bleaburn. She ordered
the chaise herself, leaving it to the landlady to
direct the post-boy where to set her down;
she appealed to the woman's good feelings to
aid her if she should find that wine, linen or
other comforts were necessary at Bleaburn,
and she could not be allowed to come and buy
them: explained that she was far from rich,
and told the exact sum which she at present
believed she should be justified in spending
on behalf of the sick; and gave a reference to
a commercial house in London. She did not
tell—and indeed she gave only a momentary
thought to it herself—that the sum of money
she had mentioned was that which she had
saved up to take her to Scotland, to see
some friends of her family, and travel through
the Highlands. As she was driven off from
the gateway of the Cross Keys, nodding and
smiling from the chaise window in turning
the corner, the landlady ceased from                                                                                      commanding the post-boy on no account to go