When Rebecca had finished reading this letter her
mind was in a state of anarchy, better imagined than
described. She sat with the letter open on the table before
her—her hands folded in each other—her eyes fixed
on vacancy.
“Well, what news, my dear,” said Mrs. Harris, as
she came into the room, and, without particularly observing
Rebecca, very leisurely stirred the fire as she spoke
to her.”
“He is married,” replied Rebecca unconsciously.—
“Well, child, you knew that before, I thought.”
“No, indeed; this is the first I ever heard of it.”
“Why, how you talk!” said Mrs. Harris, staring
at her; “to my certain knowledge she wrote you word
of it herself.”
“Who wrote me word of it?”
“Why, your mother, child.”
“Oh! my mother,” cried Rebecca, endeavouring
to rally her scattered thoughts; then, pausing for a
moment, “my poor mother,” continued she, bursting
into tears, I fear I shall never see her more.”
There was a wildness in her looks, an incoherence in
her manner, that alarmed the compassionate Mrs. Harris.
She drew a chair, and sat down beside her, took
both her hands in her's, pressed them tenderly, but remained
silent. This was a conduct more congenial to
the mind of Rebecca than the most eloquent harangue
could have been. She rested her head on the bosom of
her friend, gave a free vent to her tears, and, by degrees,
regained a tolerable degree of composure.
