Clarence Hervey was touched. He instantly made the promise required of him; and, as nothing less would satisfy the poor dying woman, confirmed it by a solemn oath. “Now I am easy,” said she, “quite easy; and may God bless you for it! In the village here, there is a Mrs. Smith, a good farmer’s wife, who knows us well; she will see to have me decently buried, and then has promised to sell all the little I have for my girl, and to take care of her. And you’ll never come near her more?” “I did not promise that,” said Hervey. The old woman again looked much disturbed. “Ah, good young gentleman!” said she, “take my advice; it will be best for you both. If you see her again, you will love her, sir--you can’t help it; and if she sees you--poor thing, how innocently she smiled when she gave you the rose!--oh, sir, never come near her when I am gone! It is too late for me now to get her out of your way. This night, I’m sure, will be my last in this world--oh, promise me you will never come here again!” “After the oath I have taken,” replied Clarence, “that promise would be unnecessary. Trust to my honour.” “Honour! Oh, that was the word the gentleman said that betrayed her poor mother, and left her afterwards to die.’--Oh, sir, sir----” The violent emotion that she felt was too much for her--she fell back exhausted--never spoke more--and an hour afterwards she expired in the arms of her grand-daughter. The poor girl could not believe that she had breathed her last. She made a sign to the surgeon, and to Clarence Hervey, who stood beside her, to be silent; and listened, fancying that the corpse would breathe again. Then she kissed her cold lips, and the shrivelled cheeks, and the eyelids that were closed for ever. She warmed the dead fingers with her breath--she raised the heavy arm, and when it fell she perceived there was no hope: she threw herself upon her knees:--“She is dead!” she exclaimed; “and she has died without giving me her blessing! She can never bless me again.” They took her into the air, and Clarence Hervey sprinkled water upon her face. It was a fine night, and the fresh air soon brought her to her senses. He then said that he would leave her to the care of the surgeon, and ride to the village in search of that Mrs. Smith who had promised to be her friend. “And so _you_ are going away from me, too?” said she; and she burst into tears. At the sight of these tears Clarence turned away, and hurried from her. He sent the woman from the village, but returned no more that night. Her simplicity, sensibility, and, perhaps more than he was aware, her beauty, had pleased and touched him extremely. The idea of attaching a perfectly pure, disinterested, unpractised heart, was delightful to his imagination: the cultivation of her understanding, he thought, would be an easy and a pleasing task: all difficulties vanished before his sanguine hopes.