g in mournful
meditation.

It was about one o'clock in the morning when the widow awoke. She had
in a great degree recovered her voice, and thus she addressed her son:--

"My dear, my impetuous boy, and have I detained you here a prisoner so
long?"

"My own inclination detained me, mother. I leave you not to others
until you are up and well again."

"That, Philip, I shall never be. I feel that death claims me; and O my
son, were it not for you, how should I quit this world rejoicing! I
have long been dying, Philip,--and long, long have I prayed for death."

"And why so, mother?" replied Philip, bluntly; "I've done my best."

"You have, my child, you have: and may God bless you for it. Often have
I seen you curb your fiery temper--restrain yourself when justified in
wrath--to spare a mother's feelings. 'Tis now some days that even
hunger has not persuaded you to disobey your mother. And, Philip, you
must have thought me mad or foolish to insist so long, and yet to give
no reason. I'll speak--again--directly."

The widow turned her head upon the pillow, and remained quiet for some
minutes; then, as if revived, she resumed:

"I believe I have been mad at times--have I not, Philip? And God knows
I have had a secret in my heart enough to drive a wife to frenzy. It
has oppressed me day and night, worn my mind, impaired my reason, and
now, at last, thank Heaven! it has overcome this mortal frame: the blow
is struck, Philip--I'm sure it is. I wait but to tell you all,--and yet
I would not,--'twill turn your brain as it has turned mine, Philip."

"Mother," replied Philip, earnestly, "I conjure you, let me hear this
killing secret. Be heaven or hell mixed up with it, I fear not. Heaven
will not hurt me and Satan I defy."

"I know thy bold, proud spirit, Philip,--thy strength of mind. If any
one could bear the load of such a dreadful tale, thou couldst. My
brain, alas! was far too weak for it; and I see it is my duty to tell it
to thee."

The widow paused as her thoughts reverted to that which she had to
confide; for a few minutes the tears rained down her hollow cheeks; she
then appeared to have summoned resolution, and to have regained
strength.

"Philip, it is of your father I would speak. 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 he