"From morning till night I had no thought
of anything but him. A passion, such as I had
never before imagined, possessed me. With
my whole soul I worshipped him. He spoke
to me of life, arid pictured it more beautiful
than an Arabian tale. He woke in me such
visions of happiness, that I lived no longer
in the daily world. He knew how much I
loved him, for I did not hide it from him,
and, with many promises and explanations,
which I then believed, he tempted me. I
rose early in the morning, and fled with him
to London. Yet, even then, I was not quite
abandoned. That very day, when I found that
he had spoken falsely, I left him for ever."

"The villain! " he exclaimed, rising from
his seat, and walking to and fro, impatiently.
"Why do you conceal his name? I would
wait until his dying day, to tell him to what
sorrow he had brought an innocent girl."

"Let me go on," said Annie; " I have
more to tell you yet. Ashamed to go back to
Windsor, I sought another part of the city,
far from where I had parted with him. I
had a little money, and I took a lodging here.
Since then, I have found work as a lace-
maker."

"Oh, Annie! " he exclaimed, leaning over
her, " if you had but come back to us, how
gladly we would have believed you, and all
might have been well."

"No, no! " she replied; " what I have
endured may take off something from my
wickedness. Grieving incessantly, and working
early and late, with no companion but my
own sad thoughts, I fell ill at last. I have
been lying here many weeks." The tone
with which she spoke, told him, more feelingly
than any words, what she had suffered in that
time from bodily and mental anguish. He
turned away that she might not see his tears;
but afterwards, unable to restrain himself,
he laid his face upon the bed, and sobbed
aloud; but Annie placed her hand upon his
head, and told him not to grieve, for that she
was happier now than she had been for a long
time. There was a calmness in her tone and
manner, that was not the indifference of a
broken heart, or of long pain that numbs the
senses, but the resignation of a weary spirit
reconciled with death, as something that
would bring her rest and peace. Her
companion felt this, and did not talk to her, as
he would have done, of happy days that
might be yet to come in the midst of the old
scenes, and with those to whom she was still
dear. Towards morning she slept again.
The next day he begged her to let him send
for her father and sister, and she consented;
and all day long he sat beside her bed, and
talked with her. The doctor came again, and
said he could do nothing—medicine was of
no use—she must be kept still. Her
companion followed him out, and asked whether
by any means she could be removed into a
better air—to a spot in which she had lived
from childhood, where she would, no doubt,
be happier in her mind: but the doctor
shook his head.

It was near Christmas, and all that day the
snow had been falling. The basket-maker
had not arrived. William Chester sat still
with the sick girl. In the afternoon she
talked to him again of the monotony and
sorrow of the days that she had spent there
alone, though as a trouble which was passed
now, and could never come again. Afterwards,
her companion, fearing to tire her with
talking, stood at the window, looking through
the glass at the snow, which was falling fast.
Looking upward, the flakes filled the air,
dancing and crossing each other in all directions;
sometimes they were carried
upwards by the wind; then they fell steadily,
till again the wind arose, and swept them
round the house. Looking round, as it grew
dusk, Annie had fallen asleep; and wearied
with watching, he sat down also, and slept.

Towards midnight he awoke. The snow
had ceased to fall, and the moon shone
brightly in a bed of clouds. Annie slept
still. Presently, he heard music at a
distance, and voices singing a Christmas hymn.
Annie opened her eyes, and seemed to listen,
and then shut them again. He watched her
for awhile. She lay back; her hand stretched
out again upon the bedclothes. He did not
dare to go over, and listen for her breathing.
He knew that she was dead.

It was a cause of sorrow to Mary Burton
and her father that they never saw her again
alive; but the thought that she had not
brought herself to shame consoled them.
Even to know that she was dead was better
than that terrible uncertainty in which they
had lived. They took her back, and she was
buried in the village churchyard, through
which they passed on Sundays. Often, as
the summer came round again, the young
basket-maker passed that way with Mary,
lingering sometimes in the twilight after
church, to talk about her; for they now felt
no restraint, but found a pleasure in recalling
all her ways; till, with a blessed faith that
she still lived beyond the reach of sorrow,
they arose, and went upon their way. And
throughout all Mary alone knew how to
cheer him, when the remembrance of these
things came over him, and made him thoughtful;
claiming always, playfully, her right, as
being three years older than he, of lecturing
him on such occasions.

But again, before many months, another
sorrow was added to their share. Mary's
father died suddenly; and now it was she who
had need of consolation, for even her cheerful
spirit gave way at last. Poor old Mrs. Frampton
gave up the shop at Eton, and came to live
with them upon the Island, and she and Mary
soon became good friends.

William Chester felt that his affection for
Mary increased from day to day; and one
evening, as they sat together as usual at the
door, he told her, for the first time, that he