"There they go round and round my bed the
whole night through. My mother, carrying little Annie (I wonder how
they got together) and Mary--and all looking at me with their sad,
stony eyes; O Jem! it is so terrible! They don't turn back either,
but pass behind the head of the bed, and I feel their eyes on me
everywhere. If I creep under the clothes I still see them; and what
is worse," hissing out her words with fright, "they see me. Don't
speak to me of leading a better life--I must have drink. I cannot
pass to-night without a dram; I dare not."
Jem was silent from deep sympathy. Oh! could he, then, do nothing
for her! She spoke again, but in a less excited tone, although it
was thrillingly earnest.
"You are grieved for me! I know it better than if you told me in
words. But you can do nothing for me. I am past hope. You can yet
save Mary. You must. She is innocent, except for the great error
of loving one above her in station. Jem! you WILL save her?"
With heart and soul, though in few words, Jem promised that if aught
earthly could keep her from falling, he would do it.
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