as he leant against the wall, “this must have been the vision of a heated imagination.  My poor mother must have fallen asleep, and dreamt this horrid tale.  I thought it was impossible, at least I hoped so.  It must have been as I suppose; the dream was too powerful, too like a fearful reality, partially unseated my poor mother’s reason.”  Philip reflected again, and was then satisfied that his suppositions were correct.

“Yes, it must have been so, poor dear mother! how much thou hast suffered! but thou art now rewarded, and with God.”

After a few minutes (during which he surveyed the room again and again with more coolness, and perhaps some indifference, now that he regarded the supernatural history as not true), Philip took out of his pocket the written paper found with the key, and read it over—­“The iron cupboard under the buffet farthest from the window.” “’Tis well.”  He took the bunch of keys from off the table, and soon fitted one to the outside wooden doors which concealed the iron safe.  A second key on the bunch opened the iron doors; and Philip found himself in possession of a considerable sum of money, amounting, as near as he could reckon, to ten thousand guilders, in little yellow sacks.  “My poor mother!” thought he; “and has a mere dream scared thee to penury and want, with all this wealth in thy possession?” Philip replaced the sacks, and locked up the cupboards, after having taken out of one, already half emptied, a few pieces for his immediate wants.  His attention was next directed to the buffets above, which, with one of the keys, he opened; he found that they contained china, silver flagons, and cups of considerable value.  The locks were again turned, and the bunch of keys thrown upon the table.

The sudden possession of so much wealth added to the conviction, to which Philip had now arrived, that there had been no supernatural appearance, as supposed by his mother, naturally revived and composed his spirits; and he felt a reaction which amounted almost to hilarity.  Seating himself on the couch, he was soon in a reverie, and as before, reverted to the lovely daughter of Mynheer Poots, indulging in various castle-buildings, all ending, as usual, when we choose for ourselves, in competence and felicity.  In this pleasing occupation he remained for more than two hours, when his thoughts again reverted to his poor mother and her fearful death.

“Dearest, kindest mother!” apostrophised Philip aloud, as he rose from his 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