'Thou hast doubtless saved my life,' said the Quaker, grasping Mrs Mowbray's hand with an emotion which she vainly tried to suppress; 'and I pray that thine may be blest!' Mrs Mowbray returned the pressure of her hand, and burst into tears; overcome with joy for having saved a fellow-creature's life; with terror, which she was now at leisure to feel for the danger to which she had herself been exposed; and with mournful emotion from the consciousness how much she needed the blessing which the grateful Quaker invoked on her head. 'Thou tremblest even more than I do,' observed the lady, smiling, but seeming ready to faint; 'I believe we had better, both of us, sit down on the bank; but it is so wet that perhaps we may as well endeavour to reach my house, which is only at the end of yon field.' Mrs Mowbray bowed her assent; and, supporting each other, they at length arrived at a neat white house, to which the Quaker cordially bade her welcome. 'It was but this morning,' said Mrs Mowbray, struggling for utterance, 'that I called upon Death to relieve me from an existence at once wretched and useless.' Here she paused:--and her new acquaintance, cordially pressing her hand, waited for the conclusion of her speech;--'but now,' continued Mrs Mowbray, 'I revoke, and repent my idle and vicious impatience of life. I have probably saved your life, and something like enjoyment now seems to enliven mine.' 'I suspect,' replied the lady, 'that thou hast known deep affliction; and I rejoice that at this moment, and in so providential a manner, I have been introduced to thy acquaintance:--for I too have known sorrow, and the mourner knows how to speak comfort to the heart of the mourner. My name is Rachel Pemberton; and I hope that when I know thy name, and thy story, thou wilt allow me to devote to thy comfort some hours of the existence which thou hast preserved.' She then hastily withdrew, to pour forth in solitude the breathings of devout gratitude:--while Mrs Mowbray, having communed with her own thoughts, felt a glow of unwonted satisfaction steal over her mind; and by the time Mrs Pemberton returned, she was able to meet her with calmness and cheerfulness. 'Thou knowest my name,' said Mrs Pemberton as she entered, seating herself by Mrs Mowbray, 'but I have yet to learn thine.' 'My name is Mowbray,' she replied sighing deeply. 'Mowbray!--The lady of Rosevalley in Gloucestershire; and the mother of Adeline Mowbray?' exclaimed Mrs Pemberton. 'What of Adeline Mowbray? What of my child?' cried Mrs Mowbray, seizing Mrs Pemberton's hand. 'Blessed woman! tell me,--Do you indeed know her?--can you tell me where to find her?' 'I will tell thee all that I know of her,' replied Mrs Pemberton in a faltering voice; 'but thy emotion overpowers me.--I--I was once a mother, and I can feel for thee.' She then turned away her head to conceal a starting tear; while Mrs Mowbray, in incoherent eagerness, repeated her questions, and tremblingly awaited her answer.