“Oh, my blessings on you,--if the blessing of one like me is any good,” cried she, kissing Mary's hand fervently. “Oh, they that praised you said the truth; you have goodness enough in your heart to make up for us all! I 'll go with you to the world's end.” “We'll pass Cro' Martin, and you shall have my horse--” “No, no, Miss Mary, I 'll go on my feet; it best becomes me. I 'll go by Burnane--by the Gap--I know it well--too well!” added she, as the tears rushed to her eyes. As she was speaking, she took off the cap she wore and threw it from her; and then removing her dress, put on the coarse woollen gown of her daily wear. “Oh, God forgive me!” cried she, “if I curse the day that I ever wore better than this.” Mary assisted her with her dress, fastening the hood of her cloak over her head, and preparing her, as best she might, for the severe storm she was to encounter; and it was plain to see that Joan accepted these little services without a thought of by whom they were rendered, so intensely occupied was her mind by the enterprise before her. A feverish haste to be away marked all she did. It was partly terror lest her escape might be prevented; partly a sense of distrust in herself, and that she might abandon her own resolution. “Oh, tell me,” she cried, as the tears streamed from her eyes, and her lips quivered with agony,--“oh, tell me I'm doing right; tell me that God's blessing is going with me this night, or I can't do it.” “And so it is, dear Joan,” said Mary; “be of good heart, and Heaven will support you. I 'm sure the trial is a sore one.” “Oh, is it not to leave this--to leave him--maybe forever? To be sure, it's forever,” cried she, bitterly. “He 'll never forgive me!” A wild burst of revelry now resounded from the parlor, and the discordant sounds of half-drunken voices burst upon their ears. Joan started, and gazed wildly around her. The agonized look of her features bespoke her dread of detection; and then with a bound she sprung madly from the spot, and was away. Mary followed quickly; but before she had secured her horse and mounted, the other was already half-way down the mountain. Now catching, now losing sight of her again, Mary at last came up with her. “Remember, dear Joan,” said Mary, “there are nine weary miles of mountain before you.” “I know it well,” was the brief reply. “And if you go by Burnane the rocks are slippy with the rain, and the path to the shore is full of danger.” “If I was afeard of danger, would I be here?” cried she. “Oh, Miss Mary,” added she, stopping and grasping her hand in both her own, “leave me to myself; don't come with me,--it's not one like you ought to keep me company.” “But Joan,--dear Joan,--I have promised to be your friend, and I am not one who forgets a pledge.”