CHAPTER X.
Death lies on her like an untimely frost,
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
The name of the stranger was Mary Oakley. Her parents had gone out adventurers to the West Indies, where, at the opening of flattering prospects, they both died victims to the fever of the climate, which seldom spares a northern constitution. Mary, then in her infancy, had been sent home to her grand-parents, who nursed this only relict of their unfortunate children with doating fondness. They were in humble life; and they denied themselves every comfort that they might gratify every wish, reasonable and unreasonable, of their darling child. She, affectionate and ardent in her nature, grew up impetuous and volatile. Instead of 'rocking the cradle of reposing age,' she made the lives of her old parents resemble a fitful April day, sunshine and cloud, succeeding each other in rapid alternation. She loved the old people tenderly—passionately, when she had just received a favour from them; but, like other spoiled children, she never testified that love
