CHAPTER THE THIRTIETH.
You call it an ill angel it may be so,
But sure I am, among the ranks which fell,
‘Tis the first fiend e’er counsell’d man to rise,
And win the bliss the sprite himself had forfeited.
OLD PLAY.
We must resume our narrative at the period when Mary Avenel was conveyed to the apartment which had been formerly occupied by the two Glendinnings, and when her faithful attendant, Tibbie, had exhausted herself in useless attempts to compose and to comfort her. Father Eustace also dealt forth with well-meant kindness those apophthegms and dogmata of consolation, which friendship almost always offers to grief, though they are uniformly offered in vain. She was at length left to indulge in the desolation of her own sorrowful feelings. She felt as those who, loving for the
