- And where will
you dry it, Maria? said I. - I'll dry it in my bosom, said she: -
'twill do me good.
And is your heart still so warm, Maria? said I.
I touch'd upon the string on which hung all her sorrows: - she
look'd with wistful disorder for some time in my face; and then,
without saying any thing, took her pipe and play'd her service to
the Virgin. - The string I had touched ceased to vibrate; - in a
moment or two Maria returned to herself, - let her pipe fall, - and
rose up.
And where are you going, Maria? said I. - She said, to Moulines. -
Let us go, said I, together. - Maria put her arm within mine, and
lengthening the string, to let the dog follow, - in that order we
enter'd Moulines.
MARIA. MOULINES.
Though I hate salutations and greetings in the market-place, yet,
when we got into the middle of this, I stopp'd to take my last look
and last farewell of Maria.
Maria, though not tall, was nevertheless of the first order of fine
forms: - affliction had touched her looks with something that was
scarce earthly; - still she was feminine; - and so much was there
about her of all that the heart wishes, or the eye looks for in
woman, that could the traces be ever worn out of her brain, and
those of Eliza out of mine, she should NOT ONLY EAT OF MY BREAD AND
DRINK OF MY OWN CUP, but Maria should lie in my bosom, and be unto
me as a daughter.
