political disturbances, which made it necessary that he should keep himself concealed for some time; that, with this view, he had come into Cornwall, attended but by one old female servant, and was now living in the valley, about four miles from Mary's home; that, very shortly after his arrival, he had had the happiness of being instrumental in saving her life, and that from that moment she had never for an instant been absent from his thoughts. And Mary listened, and was delighted; and when he told her of foreign lands and sunny climes, she would feel as if a new world were opened to her, and would mark his every word, and lay it up in her heart. And what a treasure of them she kept there!—all to be turned over again at leisure in the quiet night, and to be meditated upon and enjoyed, as the miser gloats over his hoards.
But yet Mary was not happy, for many a pang and sting of conscience she experienced at thus carrying on a clandestine intercourse. To her mother her behaviour was, if possible, more tender and kind than ever; her very sorrow at concealing anything from her seeming to increase the affection she felt towards her. Often she urged and entreated her lover to see Mrs. Atherton, and to tell her all; but this no persuasion could induce him to do. "It was necessary," he said, "for his personal safety, that he should make himself known to no one." This idea Mary endeavoured to combat, but in vain; and yet, so strange are the contradictions of woman's heart, had she obtained his consent to what she asked, she would perhaps have shrunk from it herself. That very purity of mind which might have prompted another to make known the truth, without concealment, in one of Mary's too great sensitiveness and extreme delicacy, had an opposite effect. She entertained the greatest repugnance to making to her mother an avowal of her love. She could not bear the idea that she should fancy her changed—that she should think she had thrown off the feelings of a child, and taken up those of a woman. She could not endure to give her the pain of supposing that she was not now all in all to her daughter; that their peaceful, pleasant home was no longer that daughter's only temple of happiness; and that the quiet valley had ceased to be the whole world to her hopes and thoughts. And this very dread of giving pain—this same disposition that made her shrink from casting one shade of sorrow over her mother's heart, had the same effect with regard to her lover; and a dislike, almost an inability, to deny him, rather than herself, caused her to yield to his prayers, and to continue for a long time their meetings, oven in opposition to her own better judgment and feelings.
But Mary had sound principles. She knew she was doing wrong; and though there was a long and severe struggle, her better self at length won the victory, and she determined that these clandestine interviews should cease. She had all reliance on her lover's truth and integrity, and was quite confident that when circumstances should so change that he might fearlessly be able to claim her hand with openness and honour, he would do so; but she resolved that until their meetings could take place with Mrs. Atherton's full knowledge and consent, they should be put an end to. Her resolution was confirmed by seeing, now and then, when she sot forth alone on her walks, a leek of quiet sadness in her mother's gentle eye; not meant as a reproach, but expressing to Mary's conscience-stricken heart that she felt bitterly that
