“No, no; it is the will of Heaven,” replied Philip, mournfully.

“And you will pay me, Mynheer Vanderdecken?” continued the doctor, after a short pause.

“Yes,” replied Philip in a voice of thunder, and starting from a reverie.  After a moment’s silence, the doctor recommenced.

“Shall I come to-morrow, Mynheer Philip?  You know that will be a charge of another guilder:  it is of no use to throw away money or time either.”

“Come to-morrow, come every hour, charge what you please; you shall certainly be paid,” replied Philip, curling his lip with contempt.

“Well, it is as you please.  As soon as she is dead, the cottage and the furniture will be yours, and you will sell them of course.  Yes, I will come.  You will have plenty of money.  Mynheer Philip, I would like the first offer of the cottage, if it is to let.”

Philip raised his arm in the air as if to crush Mynheer Poots, who retreated to the corner.

“I did not mean until your mother was buried,” said Poots, in a coaxing tone.

“Go, wretch, go!” said Philip, covering his face with his hands, as he sank down upon the blood-stained couch.

After a short interval, Philip Vanderdecken returned to the bedside of his mother, whom he found much better; and the neighbours, having their own affairs to attend to, left them alone.  Exhausted with the loss of blood, the poor woman slumbered for many hours, during which she never let go the hand of Philip, who watched her breathing in mournful meditation.

It was about one o’clock in the morning when the widow awoke.  She had in a great degree recovered her voice, and thus she addressed her son:—­

“My dear, my impetuous boy, and have I detained you here a prisoner so long?”

“My own inclination detained me, mother.  I leave you not to others until you are up and well again.”

“That, Philip, I shall never be.  I feel that death claims me; and, O, my son, were it not for you, how should I quit this world rejoicing!  I have long been dying, Philip,—­and long, long have I prayed for death.”

“And why so, mother?” replied Philip, bluntly; “I’ve done my best.”

“You have, my child, you have:  and may God bless you for it.  Often have I seen you curb your fiery temper—­restrain yourself when justified in wrath—­to spare a mother’s feelings.  ’Tis now some days that even hunger has not persuaded you to disobey your mother.  And, Philip, you must have thought me mad or foolish to insist so long, and yet to give no reason.  I’ll speak—­again—­directly.”

The widow turned her head upon the pillow, and remained quiet for some minutes; then, as if revived, she resumed: 

“I believe I have been mad at times—­have I not, Philip?  And God knows I have had a secret in my heart enough to drive a wife to frenzy.  It has oppressed me day and night, worn my mind, impaired my reason, and now, at last, thank Heaven! it has overcome this mortal frame:  the blow is struck, Philip,—­I’m sure it is.  I wait but to tell you all,—­and yet I would not,—­’twill turn your brain as it has turned mine, Philip.”