“I think this must be a mistake, mother,” he said, in a sort of consoling tone.  “You may have fallen into some oversights, or mistakes; but this breaking of the commandments is rather serious sort of work.”

“Yet I broke the fifth; I forgot to honour my father and mother.  Nevertheless, the Lord has been gracious; for my days have already reached threescore-and-ten.  But this is His goodness—­not any merit of my own!”

“Is it not a proof that the error has been forgiven?” I ventured to remark.  “If penitence can purchase peace, I feel certain you have earned that relief.”

“One never knows!  I think this calamity of the mortgage, and the danger I run of dying without a roof to cover my head, may be all traced up to that one act of disobedience, I have been a mother myself—­may say I am a mother now, for my grand-daughter is as dear to me as was her blessed mother—­and it is when we look down, rather than when we look up, as it might be, that we get to understand the true virtue of this commandment.”

“If it were impertinent curiosity that instigates the question, my old friend,” I added, “it would not be in my power to look you in the face, as I do now, while begging you to let me know your difficulties.  Tell them in your own manner, but tell them with confidence; for, I repeat, we have the power to assist you, and can command the best legal advice of the country.”

Again the old woman looked at me intently through her spectacles; then, as if her mind was made up to confide in our honesty, she disburthened it of its secrets.

“It would be wrong to tell you a part of my story, without telling you all,” she began; “for you might think Van Tassel and his set are alone to blame, while my conscience tells me that little has happened that is not a just punishment for my great sin.  You’ll have patience, therefore, with an old woman, and hear her whole tale; for mine is not a time of life to mislead any.  The days of white-heads are numbered; and, was it not for Kitty, the blow would not be quite so hard on me.  You must know, we are Dutch by origin—­come of the ancient Hollanders of the colony—­and were Van Duzers by name.  It’s like, friends,” added the good woman, hesitating, “that you are Yankees by birth?”

“I cannot say I am,” I answered, “though of English extraction.  My family is long of New York, but it does not mount back quite as far as the time of the Hollanders.”

“And your friend?  He is silent; perhaps he is of New England?  I would not wish to hurt his feelings, for my story will bear a little hard, perhaps, on his love of home.”

“Never mind me, mother, but rowse it all up like entered cargo,” said Marble, in his usual bitter way when alluding to his own birth.  “There’s not the man breathing that one can speak more freely before on such matters, than Moses Marble.”