"Henry," she said, holding up their child, and stretching forth her arms--"Henry, look on this dear pledge of our affection, the child of love, though born in bitterness and tears, the offspring of your choice--look on him, Henry, and let the voice of conscience in your breast, which must be heard now or hereafter, plead in his behalf. The helpless darling innocent--of what crime has he been guilty, that his natural protector should cast him forth to meet the buffetings of fate without a shield--that he should be launched upon the sea of life without an oar? If not for my sake, at least for the sake of little Henry--for he bears your name--restore us both to honour and society, by returning to the path of duty. The arms that have so often embraced you, will again encircle the neck to which they have clung so often and so fondly. O Henry. Henry! reflect for an instant on my destitute, outcast condition--without you, I am a weed cast from the rock, to be driven whithersoever the storm sets wildest. Think what my sufferings have been and must be!--God alone can estimate them. Henry, hear me." And, taking her child in one arm, she stretched out the other to detain him; but the heartless villain shook her rudely from him, and darted from the church. What were May Darling's feelings during this heart-rending scene? She was not a spectator of it. The moment that the dreadful truth flashed upon her mind, she sank into the arms of her father, dead to consciousness and time. By the same conveyance which had brought her in triumph to the church, she was borne to her father's cottage, a wretched but a gentle maniac. Days, weeks, months passed away, and she remained the same listless, mild, and inoffensive creature--a baby-woman, a human being ripe in years and an infant in thought, feeling, and everything mental. 'Tis painful to contemplate the situation of an individual overwhelmed by such a calamity under any circumstances; but, under the present, how terrible indeed! To be struck down at the altar, arrayed in bridal robes, and with all her hopes blooming around her--how does it humble human pride, set at nought all calculations of human happiness, and assign narrow limits to human hope! And yet there was mercy in the dispensation. Better unconscious almost of existence itself, than alive to all the horrors of a doom like that of May Darling. Better the vacant stare, and the look of silent indifference on all beneath the sun, than the wild gesticulations of violent grief, the shriek of woe, or the agony of despair, for the alleviation of which "hope never comes that comes to all."