Her heart ached and cried into the unknown. "O God," she cried, "I
do not know where she is, but Thou art everywhere. O God, let her know
that I have never blamed her, never wished it otherwise, never ceased to
love her, and thank her, and bless her. God! God!" cried Mary, with a
great and urgent cry, as if it were a man's name. She knelt there for a
moment before her senses failed her, her eyes shining as if they would
burst from their sockets, her lips dropping apart, her countenance like
marble.
XIII.
"And _she_ was standing there all the time," said Connie, crying and
telling her little tale after Mary had been carried away,--"standing with
her hand upon that cabinet, looking and looking, oh, as if she wanted to
say something and couldn't. Why couldn't she, mamma? Oh, Mr. Bowyer, why
couldn't she, if she wanted so much? Why wouldn't God let her speak?"
XIV.
Mary had a long illness, and hovered on the verge of death. She said a
great deal in her wanderings about some one who had looked at her. "For a
moment, a moment," she would cry; "only a moment! and I had so much to
say." But as she got better, nothing was said to her about this face she
had seen. And perhaps it was only the suggestion of some feverish dream.
She was taken away, and was a long time getting up her strength; and in
the meantime the Turners insisted that the chains should be thoroughly
seen to, which were not all in a perfect state.
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