After parting from him she determined, as it was not so very late, to go at once to Mary's, and deliver the message and letter. She found Mary in great sorrow. She had just heard of George Wilson's sudden death: her old friend, her father's friend, Jem's father--all his claims came rushing upon her. Though not guarded from unnecessary sight or sound of death, as the children of the rich are, yet it had so often been brought home to her this last three or four months. It was so terrible thus to see friend after friend depart. Her father, too, who had dreaded Jane Wilson's death the evening before he set off. And she, the weakly, was left behind, while the strong man was taken. At any rate the sorrow her father had so feared for him was spared. Such were the thoughts which came over her. She could not go to comfort the bereaved, even if comfort were in her power to give; for she had resolved to avoid Jem; and she felt that this of all others was not the occasion on which she could keep up a studiously cold manner. And in this shock of grief, Sally Leadbitter was the last person she wished to see. However, she rose to welcome her, betraying her tear-swollen face. "Well, I shall tell Mr Carson to-morrow how you're fretting for him; it's no more nor he's doing for you, I can tell you." "For him, indeed!" said Mary, with a toss of her pretty head. "Aye, miss, for him! You've been sighing as if your heart would break now for several days, over your work; now, arn't you a little goose not to go and see one who I am sure loves you as his life, and whom you love;
'How much, Mary?' 'This much,' as the children say" (opening her arms very wide). "Nonsense," said Mary pouting; "I often think I don't love him at all." "And I'm to tell him that, am I, next time I see him?" asked Sally. "If you like," replied Mary. "I'm sure I don't care for that or anything else now;" weeping afresh. But Sally did not like to be the bearer of any such news. She saw she had gone on the wrong tack, and that Mary's heart was too full to value either message or letter as she ought. So she wisely paused in their delivery, and said, in a more sympathetic tone than she had hitherto used. "Do tell me, Mary, what's fretting you so? You know I never could abide to see you cry. "George Wilson's dropped down dead this afternoon," said Mary, fixing her eyes for one minute on Sally, and the next hiding her face in her apron as she sobbed anew. "Dear, dear! All flesh is grass; here to-day and gone to-morrow, as the Bible says. Still he was an old man, and not good for much; there's better folk (than him left behind. Is th' canting old maid as Was his sister alive yet?" "I don't know who you mean," said Mary, sharply; for she did know, and did not like to have her dear, simple Alice so spoken of. "Come, Mary, don't be so innocent. Is Miss Alice Wilson alive, then; will that please you? I haven't seen her hereabouts lately." "No, she's left living here. When the twins died, she thought she could, may be, be of use to her sister, who was sadly cast down, and Alice thought she could cheer her up; at any rate she could listen to her when her heart grew overburdened; so she gave up her cellar and went to live with them." "Well, good go with her. I'd no fancy for her, and I'd no fancy for her making my pretty Mary into a Methodee." "She wasn't a Methodee she was Church o' England." "Well, well, Mary, you're very particular. You know what I meant. Look, who is this letter from? holding up Henry Carson's letter. "I don't know, and don't care," said Mary, turning very red. "My eye! as if I didn't know you did know and did care." "Well, give it me," said Mary, impatiently, and anxious in her present mood for her visitor's departure. Sally relinquished it unwillingly. She had, however, the pleasure of seeing Mary dimple and blush as she read the letter, which seemed to say the writer was not indifferent to her. "You must tell him I can't come," said Mary, raising her eyes at last.
