"Hah! touch not her defiled and loathsome body," cried the old
man--"thrust her from the door, and let her find a grave where she may.
Boy! wilt thou dare disobey me?" and he raised his clenched hand, while
anger flashed from his eye.
"Strike! feyther--strike me!" said the poor lad, bursting into
tears--"fell me to the 'arth! Kill me, an thou wilt--I care not--I will
never turn my heart agen poor Mary!--Bean't she my sister? Did thee not
teach me to love her?--Poor lass!--she do want it all now, feyther--for
she be downcast and broken-hearted!--Nay, thee art kind and good,
feyther--know thee art--I zee thine eyes be full o' tears--and
thee--thee woant cast her away from thee, I know thee woant. Mother,
speak to 'un; speak to sister Mary too--it be our own Mary! Doant 'ee
kill her wi' unkindness!"
The old man, moved by his affectionate entreaties, no longer offered any
opposition to his son's wishes, but hiding his face in his hands, he
fled from the affecting scene to an adjoining room.
Her venerable mother having recovered from the shock of her lost
daughter's sudden appearance, now rose to the assistance of the
unfortunate, and by the aid of restoratives brought poor Mary to the
full sense of her wretchedness. She was speedily conveyed to the same
humble pallet, to which, in the days of her innocence and peace, she had
always retired so light-hearted and joyously, but where she now found a
lasting sleep--an eternal repose!--Yes, poor Mary died!--and having won
the forgiveness and blessing of her offended parents, death was welcome
to her.
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