CHAPTER VII.
It was indeed a day of happiness that beheld the arrival of Mrs.
Greville and Mary at Oakwood, unalloyed to them, but not so, alas! to those who received them.

Mrs.Hamilton pressed the faded form of Mary to her heart, she kissed her repeatedly, but it was long before she could speak the words of greeting; she looked on her and on her son, and tears rose so thick and fast, she was compelled to turn away to hide them.
Ellen alone retained her calmness.

In the fond embrace that had passed between her and Mary, it is true her lip had quivered and her cheek had paled, but her agitation passed unnoticed.
"It was _her_ voice, my Mary, that roused me to exertion, it was her representations that bade me not despair," whispered Herbert, as he hung over Mary's couch that evening, and perceived Ellen busily employed in arranging her pillows.

"When, overwhelmed by the deep misery occasioned by your letter, I had no power to act, it was her ready thought that dictated to my father the course he so successfully pursued." Mary pressed the hand of Ellen within both her own, and looked up gratefully in her face.

A faint smile played round the orphan's lips, but she made no observation in reply.
A very few weeks elapsed before the dreaded truth forced itself upon the minds of all, even on her mother, that Mary was sinking, surely sinking, there was no longer hope.