'There is something more that I would say. Should my existence be prolonged even but a few days, I shall have to struggle with poverty as well as sickness; and the anxious friend (I will not call her servant) who is now my all of earthly comfort, will scarcely have money sufficient to pay me the last sad duties; and I owe her, my mother, a world of obligation! She will make my last moments easy, and _you_ must reward her. From her you will receive this letter when I am no more, and to your care and protection I bequeath her. She is--my eyes grow dim, and I must leave off for the present.' On the very evening in which Adeline had written this address to her mother, Mrs Mowbray had received Mrs Pemberton's letter; and as Miss Woodville had been interred that morning, she felt herself at liberty to join Mrs Pemberton in her search after Adeline. While various plans for this purpose presented themselves to her mind, and each of them was dismissed in its turn as fruitless or impracticable,--full of these thoughts she pensively walked along the lawn before her door, till sad and weary she leaned on a little gate at the bottom of it; which, as she did so, swung slowly backwards and forwards, responsive as it were to her feelings. But, as she continued to muse, and to recall the varied sorrows of her past life, the gate on which she leaned began to vibrate more quickly; till, unable to bear the recollections which assailed her, she was hastening with almost frantic speed towards the house, when she saw a cottager approaching, to whose sick daughter and helpless family she had long been a bountiful benefactress. 'What is the matter, John?' cried Mrs Mowbray, hastening forward to meet him--'you seem agitated.' 'My poor daughter, madam;' replied the man, bursting into tears. At the sight of his distress, his _parental_ distress, Mrs Mowbray sighed deeply, and asked if Lucy was worse. 'I doubt she is dying,' said the afflicted father. 'Heaven forbid!' exclaimed Mrs Mowbray, throwing her shawl over her shoulders; 'I will go and see her myself.' 'What, really?--But the way is so long, and the road is so miry?' 'No matter--I must do my duty.' 'God bless you, and reward you!' cried the grateful father--'that is so like you! Lucy said you would come!' Mrs Mowbray then filled a basket with medicine and refreshments, and set out on her charitable visit. She found the poor girl in a very weak and alarming state; but the sight of her benefactress, and the tender manner in which she supported her languid head, and administered wine and other cordials to her, insensibly revived her; and while writhing under the feelings of an unhappy parent herself, Mrs Mowbray was soothed by the blessings of the parent whom she comforted. At this moment they were alarmed by a shriek from a neighbouring cottage, and a woman who was attending on the sick girl ran out to inquire into the cause of it.