“One of them shall take me as near as is safe, then. I dare say we shall find somebody who will take care of my little trunk till I can send for it.” “The cordon would take care of your trunk, if that were all, but—” “The what?” interrupted the young lady. “The cordon, they call it, ma’am. To preserve ourselves, we have set people to watch on the moor above, to prevent anybody from Bleaburn coming among us, to spread the fever. Ma’am, it is worse than anything you ever heard of.” “Not worse than the plague,” thought Mary Pickard, in whose mind now rose up all she had read and heard of the horrors of the great plague, and all the longing she had felt when a child to have been a clergyman at such a time, or at least, a physician, to give comfort to numbers in their extremity. “Indeed, ma’am,” resumed the landlady, “you cannot go there. By what I hear, there are very few now that are not dead, or down in the fever.” “Then they will want me the more,” said Mary Pickard. “I must go and see my aunt. I wrote to her that I should go; and she may want me more than I thought.” “Have you an aunt living at Bleaburn?” asked the landlady, in some surprise. “I did not know that there was any lady living at Bleaburn. I thought they had been all poor people there.” “I believe my aunt is poor,” said Mary. “I have heard nothing of her for several years, except merely that she was living at Bleaburn. She had the education of a gentlewoman; but I believe her husband became a common labourer before he died. I am from America, and my name is Mary Pickard, and my aunt’s name is Johnson; and I shall be glad if you can tell me anything about her, if this fever is really raging as you say. I must see her before I go home to America.” “You see, ma’am, if you go,” said the landlady, contemplating the little trunk, “you will not be able to come away again while the fever lasts.” “And you think I shall not have clothes enough,” said Mary, smiling. “I packed my box for a week only, but I dare say I can manage. If everybody was ill, I could wash my clothes myself. I have done such a thing with less reason. Or, I could send to London for more. I suppose one can get at a post-office.” “Through the cordon, I dare say you might, ma’am. But, really, I don’t know that there is anybody at Bleaburn that can write a letter, except the clergyman and the doctor and one or two more.” “My aunt can,” said Mary, “and it is because she does not answer our letters, that I am so anxious to see her. You did not tell me whether you know her name,—Johnson.”