Mary motioned the good woman to be silent; then turning to Mrs Lennox, she sought to sooth her into composure, and turned, as she always did, he bright side of the picture to view, by dwelling on the joy her son would experience in seeing her.  Mrs. Lennox shook her head mournfully.

“Alas! he cannot joy in seeing me, such as I am.  I have too long concealed from him my dreary doom; he knows not that these poor eyes are sealed in darkness!  Oh, he will seek to read a mother’s fondness there, and he will find all cold and silent.”

“But he will also find you resigned—­even contented,” said Mary, while her tears dropped on the hand she held to her lips.

“Yes; God knows I do not repine at His will.  It is not for myself these tears fall, but my son.  How will he bear to behold the mother he so loved and honoured, now blind, bereft, and helpless?” And the wounds of her heart seemed to bleed afresh at the excitement of even its happiest emotions—­the return of a long absent, much-loved son.

Mary exerted all the powers of her understanding, all the tenderness of her heart, to dispel the mournful images that pressed on the mind of her friend; but she found it was not so much her arguments as her presence that produced that effect; and to leave her in her present situation seemed impossible.  In the agitation of her spirits she had wholly forgotten the occasion that called for Mary’s absence, and she implored her to remain with her till the arrival of her son with an earnestness that was irresistible.

The thoughts of her cousin’s displeasure, should she absent herself upon such an occasion, caused Mary to hesitate; yet her feelings would not allow her to name the cause.

“How unfeeling it would sound to talk of balls at such a time,” thought she; “what a painful contrast must it present!  Surely Lady Emily will not blame me, and no one will miss me——­” And, in the ardour of her feelings, she promised to remain.  Yet she sighed as she sent off her excuse, and thought of the pleasures she had renounced.  But the sacrifice made, the regrets were soon past; and she devoted herself entirely to soothing the agitated spirits of her venerable friend.

It is perhaps the simplest and most obvious truth, skilfully administered, that, in the season of affliction, produces the most salutary effects upon our mind.  Mary was certainly no logician, and all that she could say might have been said by another; but there is something in the voice and manner that carries an irresistible influence along with it—­something that tells us our sorrows are felt and understood, not coldly seen and heard.  Mary’s well-directed exertions were repaid with success; she read, talked, played, and sang, not in her gayest manner, but in that subdued strain which harmonised with the feelings, while it won upon the attention, and she had at length the satisfaction of seeing the object of her solicitude restored to her usual state of calm confiding acquiescence.