ature; but I loved
her, and she loved me. I came all the way back merely for the chance of
seeing her.'

'Did you ever write to her,' said I, 'or cause others to write to her?'

'I wrote to her myself,' said the man, 'about two years ago; but I never
received an answer. I learned to write very tolerably over there, by the
assistance of the good people I spoke of. As for reading, I could do
that very well before I went--my poor mother taught me to read, out of a
book that she was very fond of; a strange book it was, I remember. Poor
dear!--what I would give only to know that she is alive.'

'Life is very uncertain,' said I.

'That is true,' said the man, with a sigh.

'We are here one moment, and gone the next,' I continued. 'As I passed
through the streets of a neighbouring town, I saw a respectable woman
drop down, and people said she was dead. Who knows but that she too had
a son coming to see her from a distance, at that very time?'

'Who knows, indeed?' said the man. 'Ah, I am afraid my mother is dead.
Well, God's will be done.'

'However,' said I, 'I should not wonder at your finding your mother
alive.'

'You wouldn't?' said the man, looking at me wistfully.

'I should not wonder at all,' said I; 'indeed, something within me seems
to tell me you will; I should not much mind betting five shillings to
fivepence that you will see your mother within a week. Now, friend, five
shillings to fivepence--'

'Is very considerable odds,' said the man, rubbing his hands; 'sure you
must have good reason to hope, when you are willing to give such odds.'

'After all,' said I, 'it not unfrequently happens that those who lay the
long odds lose. Let us hope, however. What do you mean to do in the
event of finding your mother alive?'

'I scarcely know,' said the man; 'I have frequently thought that if I
found my mother alive I would attempt to persuade her to accompany me to
the country which I have left--it is a better country for a man--that is,
a free man--to live in than this; however, let me first find my
mother--if I could only find my mother--'

'Farewell,' said I, rising. 'Go your way, and God go with you--I will go
mine.' 'I have but one thing to ask you,' said the man. 'What is that?'
I inquired. 'That you would drink with me before we part--you have done
me so much good.' 'How should we drink?' said I; 'we are on the top of a
hill where there is nothing to drink.' 'But there is a village below