amined, but Philip discovered not the object
of his search; again and again did he open the drawers, but they were
all empty. It occurred to Philip that there might be secret drawers,
and he examined for some time in vain. At last he took out all the
drawers, and laid them on the floor, and lifting the cabinet off its
stand he shook it. A rattling sound in one corner told him that in all
probability the key was there concealed. He renewed his attempts to
discover how to gain it, but in vain. Daylight now streamed through
the casements, and Philip had not desisted from his attempts: at last,
wearied out, he resolved to force the back panel of the cabinet; he
descended to the kitchen, and returned with a small chopping-knife and
hammer, and was on his knees busily employed forcing out the panel,
when a hand was placed upon his shoulder.

Philip started; he had been so occupied with his search and his wild
chasing thoughts, that he had not heard the sound of an approaching
footstep. He looked up and beheld the Father Seysen, the priest of the
little parish, with his eyes sternly fixed upon him. The good man had
been informed of the dangerous state of the widow Vanderdecken, and
had risen at daylight to visit and afford her spiritual comfort.

"How now, my son," said the priest: "fearest thou not to disturb thy
mother's rest? and wouldst thou pilfer and purloin even before she is
in her grave?"

"I fear not to disturb my mother's rest, good father," replied Philip,
rising on his feet, "for she now rests with the blessed. Neither do I
pilfer or purloin. It is not gold I seek, although if gold there were,
that gold would now be mine. I seek but a key, long hidden, I believe,
within this secret drawer, the opening of which is a mystery beyond my
art."

"Thy mother is no more, sayest thou, my son? and dead without
receiving the rites of our most holy church! Why didst thou not send
for me?"

"She died, good father, suddenly--most suddenly, in these arms, about
two hours ago. I fear not for her soul, although I can but grieve you
were not at her side."

The priest gently opened the curtains, and looked upon the corpse. He
sprinkled holy water on the bed, and for a short time his lips were
seen to move in silent prayer. He then turned round to Philip.

"Why do I see thee thus employed? and why so anxious to obtain that
key? A mother's death should call forth filial tears and prayers for
her repose. Yet are thine eyes dry