eak. It is supposed--that he
was--drowned at sea."

"And was he not, mother?" replied Philip, with surprise.

"O no!"

"But he has long been dead, mother?"

"No,--yes,--and yet--no," said the widow, covering her eyes.

Her brain wanders, thought Philip, but he spoke again:

"Then where is he, mother?"

The widow raised herself, and a tremor visibly ran through her whole
frame, as she replied--

"IN LIVING JUDGMENT."

The poor woman then sank down again upon the pillow, and covered her
head with the bedclothes, as if she would have hid herself from her
own memory. Philip was so much perplexed and astounded, that he could
make no reply. A silence of some minutes ensued, when, no longer able
to beat the agony of suspense, Philip faintly whispered--

"The secret, mother, the secret; quick, let me hear it."

"I can now tell all, Philip," replied his mother, in a solemn tone of
voice. "Hear me, my son. Your father's disposition was but too like
your own;--O may his cruel fate be a lesson to you, my dear, dear
child! He was a bold, a daring, and, they say, a first-rate seaman.
He was not born here, but in Amsterdam; but he would not live there,
because he still adhered to the Catholic religion. The Dutch, you
know, Philip, are heretics, according to our creed. It is now
seventeen years or more that he sailed for India, in his fine ship
the _Amsterdammer_, with a valuable cargo. It was his third voyage to
India, Philip, and it was to have been, if it had so pleased God,
his last, for he had purchased that good ship with only part of his
earnings, and one more voyage would have made his fortune. O! how
often did we talk over what we would do upon his return, and how these
plans for the future consoled me at the idea of his absence, for I
loved him dearly, Philip,--he was always good and kind to me; and
after he had sailed, how I hoped for his return! The lot of a sailor's
wife is not to be envied. Alone and solitary for so many months,
watching the long wick of the candle, and listening to the howling of
the wind--foreboding evil and accident--wreck and widowhood. He had
been gone about six months, Philip, and there was still a long dreary
year to wait before I could expect him back. One night, you, my
child, were fast asleep; you were my only solace--my comfort in my
loneliness. I had been watching over you in your slumbers; you smiled
and half pronounced the name of mother; and at last I kissed your
unconscious