“Mother,” replied Philip, earnestly, “I conjure you, let me hear this killing secret.  Be heaven or hell mixed up with it, I fear not.  Heaven will not hurt me, and Satan I defy.”

“I know thy bold, proud spirit, Philip,—­thy strength of mind.  If anyone could bear the load of such a dreadful tale, thou couldst.  My brain, alas! was far too weak for it; and I see it is my duty to tell it to thee.”

The widow paused as her thoughts reverted to that which she had to confide; for a few minutes the tears rained down her hollow cheeks; she then appeared to have summoned resolution, and to have regained strength.

“Philip, it is of your father I would speak.  It is supposed—­that he was—­drowned at sea.”

“And was he not, mother?” replied Philip, with surprise.

“O no!”

“But he has long been dead, mother?”

“No,—­yes,—­and yet—­no,” said the widow, covering her eyes.

Her brain wanders, thought Philip, but he spoke again: 

“Then where is he, mother?”

The widow raised herself, and a tremor visibly ran through her whole frame, as she replied—­

“In living judgment.”

The poor woman then sank down again upon the pillow, and covered her head with the bedclothes, as if she would have hid herself from her own memory.  Philip was so much perplexed and astounded, that he could make no reply.  A silence of some minutes ensued, when, no longer able to beat the agony of suspense, Philip faintly whispered—­

“The secret, mother, the secret; quick, let me hear it.”

“I can now tell all, Philip,” replied his mother, in a solemn tone of voice.  “Hear me, my son.  Your father’s disposition was but too like your own;—­O may his cruel fate be a lesson to you, my dear, dear child!  He was a bold, a daring, and, they say, a first-rate seaman.  He was not born here, but in Amsterdam; but he would not live there, because he still adhered to the Catholic religion.  The Dutch, you know, Philip, are heretics, according to our creed.  It is now seventeen years or more that he sailed for India, in his fine ship the Amsterdammer, with a valuable cargo.  It was his third voyage to India, Philip, and it was to have been, if it had so pleased God, his last, for he had purchased that good ship with only part of his earnings, and one more voyage would have made his fortune.  O! how often did we talk over what we would do upon his return, and how these plans for the future consoled me at the idea of his absence, for I loved him dearly, Philip,—­he was always good and kind to me; and after he had sailed, how I hoped for his return!  The lot of a sailor’s wife is not to be envied.  Alone and solitary for so many months, watching the long wick of the candle, and listening to the howling of the wind—­foreboding evil and accident—­wreck and widowhood.  He had been gone about six months, Philip, and there was still a long dreary year to wait before I could