It was very unwillingly that Tom consented, but I overruled his entreaties, and he remained. I walked to Mary’s house and entered. She was up in the little parlour, dressed in deep mourning; when I entered she was looking out upon the river; she turned her head, and perceiving me, rose to meet me.
“You do not come to upbraid me, Jacob, I am sure,” said she, in a melancholy voice; “you are too kind-hearted for that.”
“No, no, Mary; I come to comfort you, if possible.”
“That is not possible. Look at me, Jacob. Is there not a worm—a canker—that gnaws within?”
The hollow cheek and wild flaring eye, once so beautiful, but too plainly told the truth.
“Mary,” said I, “sit down; you know what the Bible says—‘It is good for us to be afflicted.’”
“Yes, yes,” sobbed Mary, “I deserve all I suffer; and I bow in humility. But am I not too much punished, Jacob? Not that I would repine; but is it not too much for me to bear, when I think that I am the destroyer of one who loved me so?”
“You have not been the destroyer, Mary.”
“Yes, yes; my heart tells me that I have.”
“But—I tell you that you have not. Say, Mary, dreadful as the punishment has been, would you not kiss the rod with thankfulness, if it cured you of your unfortunate disposition, and prepared you to make a good wife?”