r 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 bear
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 lips, and I knelt and prayed--prayed for God's blessing on
you, my child, and upon him too--little thinking, at the time, that he
was so horribly, so fearfully CURSED."

The widow paused for breath, and then