Her aunt had children, then; and she was on the point of putting some question about them, but before it could be spoken another thought turned it aside, and she went back to her task of unravelling the mystery of the paper, and the handwriting. Oh! how she wished her aunt would go'. As if, according to the believers in mesmerism, the intenseness of her wish gave her power over another, although the wish was unexpressed, Esther felt herself unwelcome, and that her absence was desired. She felt this some time before she could summon up resolution to go. She was so much disappointed in this longed-for, dreaded interview with Mary; she had wished to impose upon her with her tale of married respectability, and yet she had yearned and craved for sympathy in her real lot. And she had imposed upon her well. She should perhaps be glad of it afterwards; but her desolation of ho e seemed for the time redoubled. And she must leave the old dwelling-place, whose very walls, and flags, dingy and sordid as they were, had a charm for her. Must leave the abode of poverty, for the more terrible abodes of vice. She must-she would go. "Well, good night, Mary. That bit 9f paper is safe enough with you, I see.
But you made me promise I would not tell about it, and you must promise me to destroy it before you sleep." "I promise," said Mary, hoarsely, but firmly. "Then you are going?" "Yes. Not if you wish me to stay. Not if I could be of any comfort to you, Mary;" catching at some glimmering hope. "Oh, no," said Mary, anxious to be alone. "Your husband will be wondering where you are. Some day you must tell me all about yourself. I forget what your name is?" "Fergusson," said Esther, sadly. "Mrs Fergusson, repeated Mary, half unconsciously. "And where did you say you lived?" "I never did say," muttered Esther; then aloud, "In Angel's Meadow, 145 Nicholas Street." "145 Nicholas Street, Angel's Meadow. I shall remember." As Esther drew her shawl around her, and prepared to depart, a thought crossed Mary's mind that she had been cold and hard in her manner towards one, who had certainly meant to act kindly in bringing her the paper (that dread, terrible piece of paper!), and thus saving her from----she could not rightly think how much, or how little she was spared. So, desirous of ****** up for her previous indifferent manner, she advanced to kiss her aunt before her departure. But, to her surprise, her aunt pushed her off with a frantic kind of gesture, and saying the words, "Not me. You must never kiss me. You!" She rushed into the outer darkness of the street, and there wept long and bitterly.
