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whole stream of the holy affections-maternal-even maternal. Deep and wide spreading ruin! Not an individual of this once happy family has escaped its fatal consequences-all, all wretched. But thanks be to God's protecting power, honor is still unsullied. Mary, though weak and erring, is not yet guilty."
This thought stole like a ray of light into a darkened room. It soothed his perturbation, though it could not allay his distress.
When Mrs. Murray learned the events of the morning, she was overwhelmed with grief-with anger; she wrung her hands and deplored her unhappy fate-reproached William, and declared she too would leave his house, and follow her poor, friendless boy. She poured her complaints into Mary's not unwilling ear; for she, too, resented the conduct of her husband to Charles. She would not appear at the dinner table-neither would Mrs. Murray, and the unhappy husband sat along, with a feeling of desolateness which words cannot describe.
Lost in gloomy reverie he marked not the increasing storm-he marked not the passing hours-the day was gone, but he was still there, buried in his misery. Form this state he was roused by the sound of hurried footsteps. He started up, and opened the door to inquire what was the matter, and saw the maid hastening up stairs with a candle.
In answer to his enquiry, she told him that Meta was very ill. Without waiting for another word, he snatched the candle from her hand, and springing past her, rushed into his wife's apartment. There, indeed, he saw his little girl, gasping as if for life, in the arms of her pale and terrified mother. Too well he knew the alarming sound of Meta's hoarse and impeded breathing.
"She has the croup-and oh, how dreadfully; take the candle, I will run for Doctor R."
The storm still raged, but he ran forth, insensible to its fury. An hour elapsed before he returned with the physician, who lived at a great distance. By the time he arrived Mrs. Murray and Mary were almost bereft of hope, and were sobbing over the little sufferer. No time was to be lost. Doctor R. caught the child from its couch, and baring its throat, cut the jugular vein.
"You are killing my child!" franticly screamed Mary; as she attempted to seize the hand of the physician; but the incision was made, and the blood gushed forth. Mary stood horror-struck. She saw her clothes sprinkled with the blood of her child. She saw that child lying to all appearance dead. Some thought darted into her mind with an electrifying force, and starting, she wildly shrieked,--
"I am the murderer!" and fell senseless to the ground, as if struck by some invisible dagger. Conscience has daggers.
The half-distracted husband could not fly to her relief. Meta was in his arms-she had fainted-and he hung over her in the agonizing fear of her never reviving-though the physician assured him to the contrary: in breathless suspense he moved not, he spoke not-he looked not from his precious child. She breathes, breathes freely-she will live! He burst into tears, and resigning her into the arms of Mrs. Murray, hurried to his wife. Aided by Doctor R., he laid her on the sofa. Suspended animation returned, but her senses were bewildered-her exclamations wild and incoherent.
"Her blood is on me! Oh, I have killed her; cruel mother-wicked mother. Kill me!-kill me!"
Thus for a while she raved, until her brain was relieved by the loss of a little blood, and the administration of a composing draught. After a while she sunk into a disturbed slumber. Mr. Murray watched by her side, stealing from time to time to Meta's couch, and putting his ear close to her pale lips, to assure himself she was alive; for so softly did she now breathe, that her respiration was almost imperceptible. Doctor R. had gone; Mrs. Murray sat by the child-the light of the candle was screened. In the dimness and stillness of the room, the father and the husband, leaning his aching head on the arm of the sopha, tried to calm the turbulence of his feelings, and to reflect on recent scenes. His strongest emotion was gratitude to God for the preservation of his child.
While thus absorbed in thought and feeling, he was roused by the entrance of the maid, who, crossing the room on tip-toe, whispered to Mrs. Murray, who arose and followed her from the room. Henry availed himself of the opening of the door, at which he had been long watching, and stole into the room. His father raised his finger in sign of silence, and drawing the boy to him, placed him on his knee, whispered--
"Meta and your mother sleep, make no noise."
The boy obeyed, and soon fell asleep on the shoulder of his father.
Mr. Murray suspected whose was the loud noise he heard below; and the pulsations of his heart quickened at the idea that Charles was again beneath his roof.
"How will all this end?" and he shuddered at the thoughts which passed in his mind.
It was long before Mrs. Murray returned; and all below was again quiet. By the light she bore in her hand, Mr. Murray perceived she had been weeping, and looked much agitated. But she said nothing-she resumed her seat by Meta, and after ascertaining all was well, extinguished her light. All was again dark and silent.
When day returned and Mary awoke from the long and deep sleep in which an opiate had bound her, it was sometime before she knew where she was. True her husband held her hand and watched beside her. But wherefore this? William tried gently to read her bewildered ideas-but suddenly starting up-
"I know! I know," exclaimed she "Meta is dead, and I have killed her!" Nor could she be persuaded of the contrary, until led to the bedside of her child.
Meta stretched out her feeble arms, saying-"Kiss me, mamma."
Mary threw herself by her side, clasped the child to her bosom, covering her pale face with her tears and her kisses. Mr. Murray fearful of the effects of such agitation on the little invalid, gently forced her from the bed. Assured of its restoration to life, she withdrew her arms, and after another fond look, turned to her husband, and clasping him round his neck, cried,-
"Forgive me, William-forgive me, or I die!"