s leaning position, "here thou wert, tired with watching over my
infant slumbers, thinking of my absent father and his dangers, working
up thy mind and anticipating evil, till thy fevered sleep conjured up
this apparition. Yes, it must have been so; for see here, lying on the
floor, is the embroidery, as it fell from thy unconscious hands, and
with that labour ceased thy happiness in this life. Dear, dear mother!"
continued he; a tear rolling down his cheek as he stooped to pick up the
piece of muslin, "how much hast thou suffered when--God of Heaven!"
exclaimed Philip, as he lifted up the embroidery, starting back with
violence, and overturning the table, "God of Heaven, and of Judgment,
there is--there _is_," and Philip clasped his hands, and bowed his head
in awe and anguish, as in a changed and fearful tone he muttered
forth--"the LETTER!"

It was but too true,--underneath the embroidery on the floor had lain
the fatal letter of Vanderdecken. Had Philip seen it on the table when
he first went into the room, and was prepared to find it, he would have
taken it up with some degree of composure: but to find it now, when he
had persuaded himself that it was all an illusion on the part of his
mother; when he had made up his mind that there had been no supernatural
agency; after he had been indulging in visions of future bliss and
repose, was a shock that transfixed him where he stood and for some time
he remained in his attitude of surprise and terror. Down at once fell
the airy fabric of happiness which he had built up during the last two
hours; and as he gradually recovered from his alarm, his heart filled
with melancholy forebodings. At last he dashed forward, seized the
letter, and burst out of the fatal room.

"I cannot, dare not, read it here," exclaimed he: "no, no, it must be
under the vault of high and offended Heaven, that the message must be
received." Philip took his hat, and went out of the house; in calm
despair he locked the door, took out the key, and walked he knew not
whither.

CHAPTER FOUR.

If the reader can imagine the feelings of a man who, sentenced to death,
and having resigned himself to his fate, finds himself unexpectedly
reprieved; who, having recomposed his mind after the agitation arising
from a renewal of those hopes and expectations which he had abandoned,
once more dwells upon future prospects, and indulges in pleasing
anticipations: we say, that if the reader can imagine thi