14

"Be calm, my Mary," said he pressing her to his bosom, and wiping the tears from her cheek, "be calm."
"I can never know peace again unless you forgive me. Oh, say that you forgive me, William!"
"I do, from the bottom of my heart, I do!"
Mary withdrew from his arms, and retreating to the darkest corner of the room, and falling on her knees, raised her hands, her soul to the father of all mercies. The long closed door of her heart was opened-the long dormant feeling of diving love was rekindled-the long mute voice of prayer, of praise, of thanksgiving, of penitence, again rose within her bosom.
"Thanks, thanks-pardon, pardon," were the accents of that inaudible voice. Inaudible on earth but heard in Heaven, by Him who pitieth as a father pitieth his children.
For several successive days Mary never left the chamber of her dear patient; she amused her when awake and watched over her when she slept. Mr. Murray had to go to his office-Mrs. Murray attended to household concerns-Henry was sent to school-Mary was alone in this silent chamber; no, not alone, for God was with her. Yes, once more she rejoiced in the divine presence, and communed with her own heart and with the searcher of hearts. She felt as if awakened from a dream-as if she had been blind, and her sight suddenly restored.
The delusions by which she had so long been led astray seemed to vanish from her darkened mind, like bright meteors from the midnight sky. Yes, bright, even yet they seemed bright. The vivid emotions-the glowing fancies-the tender feelings-the full flow of ideas-the quickened intellect-the delightful imaginings-the buoyancy of spirits-the excited enthusiasm, which, in their combination, gave such a charm to her intercourse with Charles, could not be forgotten.
But as companions to these pleasing images came too, the recollection of her continual consciousness of something wrong; her chilled affections for her husband and children-her neglect of every duty-the irksome restraint-the painful resource-the absence of confidence and sympathy, in her intercourse with her husband; and then, (oh, how she blushed at the recollection,) the embittered, the angry feelings that finally destroyed her peace and made her wretched.
"And all," thought she, "all the raptures and all the torments I have experienced arose from deep and damning sin. No wonder I could not reconcile such contradictory feelings-such conflicting duties. Brother! oh, fatal cause of my error. I called him brother, though I felt not like a sister. Yet veiling my feelings under this specious disguise, I deceived my own heart, and silenced the murmurs of conscience! But the veil has fallen from my eyes, the shock by which it was torn away was severe, but effectual. Oh, on what a precipice I stood,-how smooth and flowery was the path leading to it. Thy hand has staid me, gracious God; rebellious as I have been, thy power was not forgotten. Had it not been for they felt presence-for a deep conviction of my responsibility to thy holy tribunal, what a lost and guilty creature might I now have been! Guilty! oh, I am guilty-but not lost, irremediably lost! Humble me-correct me-afflict me, but abandon me not, oh! my heavenly father!"
In such exercises of the soul did Mary pass the silent and solitary hours of many days. A [burthen?] seemed lifted from her heart, and its natural affections flowed forth in a stream full and pure. A renewal of confidence and frankness once more united her to her fond and indulgent husband. He not only forgave but forgot the errors of one so dearly beloved. The vivacity of first love could not be restored; but a more enduring, though a more tranquil sentiment supplied its place. Meta recovered and was never again neglected by her now devoted mother. Henry was kept at school all day, but returned at its close to enliven and gladden all the family-but most especially the little Meta. Charles after several ineffectual attempts to have an interview with Mary, departed for the far west, and in the stirring scenes of wild adventure, met an early grave. Old Mrs. Murray long mourned what she called his banishment; but when she learned all the evil he had caused, no longer reproached Mary with unkindness.
Peace, which like a dove scared from its nest, had fled from her bosom, once more returned and blessed the home of Mary, and she learned from experience the truth declared by the Christian moralist, that
"If you allow any passion, even though it be esteemed innocent, to acquire an absolute ascendant, your inward peace will be impaired. But if any which has the taint of guilt take possession of your mind, you may date from that moment the ruin of your tranquillity."