she even saw Clarence at all; but sat upon the sofa, with her face buried in her apron, and rocked herself to and fro.
"Oh! he's dying, I feel he is!" she sobbed aloud; "he that promised to be such a great man, and would have been, I know. And all for love of you, Mary Jones; he raves of nothing but you, day and night. He's dying for love of you, cruel, cruel Mary Jones! and you will have his life to answer for one of these days. Come, come and see him before it is too late."
"Dying—dying for love of me!" Mary Jones cried, standing up, pale and wild, the tears running fast down her cheeks.
What a frightful past was that she had just escaped! It made her shudder. Was there time to make peace with the man she had so injured, and now knew that she loved so with the whole depth and strength of her nature? Like Margaret, she breathed one prayer aloud; and was that Faust hurriedly groping for his hat, and cursing his fate, in the entry? Then she flung her arms about the neck of Miss Keziah, and sobbed upon her breast.
"Save me, save me, O Keziah!" she said, "and take me with you. I will never leave his bedside while he lives, until he is my husband."
Elkhart lived—of course he did—under such careful nursing. Mrs. Jones plead, and half the village held up their hands, but Mary Jones was not to be moved. She became Mrs. Elkhart in time, and what sweeter face or better wife was there known to artists in all Rome? We all saw and admired lately the greatest work, thus far, of Elkhart's chisel; but what that work is I am not going to say, for then every one would know the true and proper name of our seulptor, and, perhaps, next Sunday in church, would be staring at still pretty Mrs. Elkhart, and, by inference, condemning young Van Trump, in place of attending to the Collect for the day, or crying—as every one of us has occasion to do, not less than Mr. Clarence, perhaps—"God be merciful to me a sinner!"
