I said fondly, "I would take it from your hands, so that I might but die upon your bosom." "It is not poison," he said, "Alice, but what many a fine lady in London cannot rest without. You will need repose; you are going a long journey to-morrow; drink it love; and mayest thou sleep in peace." I took the draught and slumbered, even while reposing in his arms. . . .
Oh my father, he left me.—I awoke to hear that he was gone—to feel a misery, I never can describe. From that day, I fell into a dangerous illness. I knew not what I said or did. I heard, on recovering, that my lord had taken another mistress, and was about to marry; that he had provided for me with money; that he had left me my child. I resolved to follow:—I recovered in that hope alone. I went over to Ireland:—the gates of the abbey were shut against me. Mr. Hard Head, a friend of my lord's whom I once named to you, met me as I stood an helpless
