"Sweet mother—may I call you so?—sweet mother, I will tell you what I did not like to tell dear Emma, for fear it might distress her; she is so sensitive, you know!" murmured the siren, sitting down and tenderly caressing the old lady.
"Tell me then, my love, tell me anything you like," said Mrs. Cavendish, weeping.
"Well, you know that dear old lady friend in Charlottesville, of whom I spoke to you a week or so ago?"
"Ah, yes! The bishop's widow, who is reduced to keeping a student's boarding-house to help support her fifteen children," sighed the ancient dame.
"Yes, and my dear dead mother's dearest friend. Well, I have heard that she is in a dying condition and desires above all things to see me before she departs. That's what shocked me so severely as to make me quite ill. But I never should forgive myself if by any delay of mine she really should depart without having her last wish gratified. Do you blame me for hurrying away?"
"No, no, no, my child—my own lovely child! I do not wonder my poor Charley worshiped you, you are so very good! Go, Mary, my darling! But hurry back as soon as possible."
"Yes, sweet mother, I will. And now, not a word to Emma, or to any one else who might tell her of these distressing circumstances."
"No, no; certainly not! How thoughtful you are, for one so young, my good child! Bend down and take my blessing."
Mary Grey bowed her head.
The venerable lady placed her withered hands upon the bent head, raised her eyes to heaven, and solemnly invoked a blessing on the traitress.