Reduced to a state of infantine weakness, the return of Mary Cuthbert's mental faculties was very sparingly followed by an accession of bodily strength; and, when she was perfectly sensible of her situation, and of the unkindness of Miss Moreton, in leaving her to the mercy of strangers, she seemed incapable of the least exertion for herself.

Her nurse, who had been won upon by the gentle patience of the invalid, with all the loquacity usually attendant on those of her occupation, and rejoiced at finding that she had once more an opportunity of making herself heard and understood, was loud in her praises of Dr. Saville's skill, and also of the kind and incessant attention of the handsome officer from the barracks.

Mary, to whom all that had passed was a mystery, expressed her gratitude to Dr. Saville, at their next interview. ‘I am grateful to you, my good Sir,’ said she, ‘for the preservation of my life; grateful, as it is the will of the Almighty, that it should be prolonged; which is apparent by his having blessed the means which you have used for my recovery. Yet, in a prolongation of life, I see nothing to hope.’

‘Oh! fie, fie, say not so, young lady,’ said the Doctor; ‘I must not hear that language. At your age, a very unnatural one, let me tell you – Come, come, I know more than you think for; you shall not always live with this confounded quiz, odd-body cousin of yours! and you have time before you, to make friends, who are more congenial to your turn of mind. To be sure, this Miss Moreton is the most uncommon heroine I ever met with in history or fable; and, I believe, nobody besides herself would have thought of putting you under the management of a gay red coat, and absolutely leaving him your whole and soul guardian.