and looking back continually, Mary went
away. Bridget was as still as death, scarcely
drawing her breath, or closing her stony
eyes; till at last she turned back into her
cottage and heaved a ponderous old settle
against the door. There she sat, motionless,
over the grey ashes of her extinguished fire,
deaf to Madam's sweet voice, as she begged
leave to enter and comfort her nurse. Deaf,
stony, and motionless she sat for more than
twenty hours; till, for the third time,
Madarn 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 today 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 sorrow came upon the
house of the Starkeys. The Squire sickened
of a putrid fever; and Madam caught it in
nursing him, and died. You may be sure,
Bridget let no other woman tend her but
herself; and in the very arms that had
received her at her birth, that sweet young
woman laid her head down and gave up her breath.
The Squire recovered, in a fashion. He was
never strong—he had never the heart to
smile again. He fasted and prayed more than
ever; and people did say that he tried to cut
off the entail, and leave all the property away
to found a monastery abroad, of which he
prayed that some day little Squire Patrick
might be the reverend father. But he could
not do this, for the strictness of the entail
and the laws against the Papists. So he
could only appoint gentlemen of his
own faith as guardians to his son, with many
charges about the lad's soul, and a few about
the land, and the way it was to be held
while he was a minor. Of course, Bridget
was not forgotten. He sent for her as he lay
on his death-bed, and asked her if she would
rather have a sum down, or have a small
annuity settled upon her. She said at once
she would have a sum down; for she thought
of her daughter, and how she could bequeath
the money to her, whereas an annuity would
have died with her. So the Squire left her
her cottage for life, and a fair sum of money.
And then he died with as ready and willing
a heart as, I suppose, ever any gentleman
took out of this world with him. The
young Squire was carried off by his guardians,
and Bridget was left alone.

I have said that she had not heard from
Mary for some time. In her last letter, she
had told of travelling about with her
mistress, who was the English wife of some great
foreign officer, and had spoken of her chances
of making a good marriage, without naming
the gentleman's name, keeping it rather back
as a pleasant surprise to her mother, his
station and fortune being, as I had afterwards
reason to know, far superior to anything she
had a right to expect. Then came a long
silence; and Madam was dead, and the Squire
was dead; and Bridget's heart was gnawed
by anxiety, and she knew not whom to ask
for news of her child. She could not write,
and the Squire had managed her communication
with her daughter. She walked off to
Hurst; and got a good priest there—one
whom she had known at Antwerp—to write
for her. But no answer came. It was like
crying into the awful stillness of night.

One day Bridget was missed by those neighbours
who had been accustomed to mark her
out-goings and in-comings. She had never
been sociable with any of them; but the
sight of her had become a part of their daily
lives, and slow wonder arose in their minds,
as morning after morning came, and her
house-door remained closed, her window dead
from any glitter, or light of fire within.
At length, some one tried the door; it was
locked. Two or three laid their heads together,
before daring to look in through the
blank, unshuttered window. But, at last,
they summoned up courage; and then saw
that Bridget's absence from their little world
was not the result of accident or death, but
of premeditation. Such small articles of
furniture as could be secured from the effects
of time and damp by being packed up, were
stowed away in boxes. The picture of the