"Then you go to him to-night the first thing, and tell him to
come to me to-morrow, about noon. Tell him I am ill, and in bed,
and particularly want to see him; and he mustn't let anything
they say keep him from me, not even if they tell him I am dead."
"I will," said Mary, and, stroking the thin hand that lay outside
the counterpane, turned and left him.
"Don't tell any one you are gone," he called after her, with a
voice far from feeble. "I don't want any of their damned
company."
CHAPTER LIII.
A FRIEND IN NEED.
Mary left the house, and saw no one on her way. But it was
better, she said to herself, that he should lie there untended,
than be waited on by unloving hands.
The night was very dark. There was no moon, and the stars were
hidden by thick clouds. She must walk all the way to Testbridge.
She felt weak, but the fresh air was reviving. She did not know
the way so familiarly as that between Thornwick and the town, but
she would enter the latter before arriving at the common.
She had not gone far when the moon rose, and from behind the
clouds diminished the darkness a little. The first part of her
journey lay along a narrow lane, with a small ditch, a rising
bank, and a hedge on each side. About the middle of the lane was
a farmyard, and a little way farther a cottage. Soon after
passing the gate of the farmyard, she thought she heard steps
behind her, seemingly soft and swift, and naturally felt a little
apprehension; but her thoughts flew to the one hiding-place for
thoughts and hearts and lives, and she felt no terror.
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