splash of the lad in the water, and, frightened at his own guilt, ran down below, and gained his cabin.  There he seated himself, trembling like an aspen leaf.  It was the first time that he had been a murderer.  He was pale as ashes.  He felt sick, and he staggered to his cupboard, poured out a tumbler of scheedam, and drank it off at a draught.  This recovered him, and he again felt brave.  He returned on deck, and ordered his boat to be manned, which was presently done.  Mr Vanslyperken would have given the world to have gone aft, and to have looked over the stern, but he dared not; so, pushing the men into the boat, he slipped in, and was pulled on shore.  Without giving any directions to the men he stepped out, and felt a relief when he found himself on terra firma.  He walked away as fast as he could—­he felt that he could not walk fast enough—­he was anxious to arrive at his mother’s.  The rain fell fast, but he thought not of his umbrella, it remained under his arm, and Mr Vanslyperken, as if he were chased by a fiend, pushed on through the fog and rain; he wanted to meet a congenial soul, one who would encourage, console him, ridicule his fears, and applaud the deed which he would just then have given the world to have recalled.

Where could he seek one more fitted to the purpose than his mother?  The door of the house where she lodged was common to many, and therefore opened with a latch.  He went in, and upstairs, tried the door of his mother’s room, and found it fastened within.  He knocked, heard the grumbling of the old woman at her being obliged to rise from her chair:  she opened the door, and Vanslyperken, as soon as he was in, slammed it to, and exhausted with his emotions, fell back in a chair.

“Hey day! and what’s the matter now?” cried the old woman, in Dutch; “one would think that you had been waylaid, robbed, and almost murdered.”

“Murdered!” stammered Vanslyperken; “yes—­it was murder.”

“What was murder, my child?” replied the old woman, reseating herself.

“Did I say murder, mother?” said Vanslyperken, wiping the blended rain and perspiration from his brow with a cotton handkerchief.

“Yes, you did, Cornelius Vanslyperken; not that I believe a craven like you would ever attempt such a thing.”

“But I have, mother.  I have done the deed,” replied Vanslyperken.

“You have!” cried his mother; “then at last you have done something, and I shall respect you.  Come, come, child, cheer up, and tell me all about it.  There is a slight twinge the first time—­but the second is nothing.  Did you get gold?  Hey, my son, plenty of gold?”

“Gold! no, no—­I got nothing—­indeed I lost by it—­lost a pot full of black paint—­but never mind that.  He’s gone,” replied Vanslyperken, recovering himself fast.

“Who is gone?”

“The lad, Smallbones.”

“Pish,” replied the old woman, rocking her chair.  “Ay, well, never mind—­it was for revenge, then—­that’s sweet—­very sweet.  Now, Cornelius, tell me all about it.”