“It is late, and I fear to detain you from your rest, but something impels me that I cannot resist.  Listen, then, while I talk to you of myself.  You are as yet almost unacquainted with your mother’s history.”

“Another time, mother; you are not well now,” said Alice.

“Yes, my love, now.  You were born in the same house that I was; yet your infancy only was passed where I lived until my marriage.  I was motherless at an early age; indeed, one of the first remembrances that I recall is the bright and glowing summer evening when my mother was carried from our plantation on James River to the opposite shore, where was our family burial-ground.  Can I ever forget my father’s uncontrolled grief, and the sorrow of the servants, as they followed, dressed in the deepest mourning.  I was terrified at the solemn and dark-looking bier, the black plumes that waved over it, and all the dread accompaniments of death.  I remember but little for years after this, save the continued gloom of my father, and his constant affection and indulgence toward me, and occasionally varying our quiet life by a visit to Richmond or Washington.

“My father was a sincere and practical Christian.  He was averse to parting with me; declaring, the only solace he had was in directing my education, and being assured of my happiness.

“My governess was an accomplished and amiable lady, but she was too kind and yielding.  I have always retained the most grateful remembrance of her care.  Thus, though surrounded by good influences, I needed restraint, where there was so much indulgence.  I have sometimes ventured to excuse myself on the ground that I was not taught that most necessary of all lessons:  the power of governing myself.  The giving up of my own will to the matured judgment of others.

“The part of my life that I wish to bring before you now, is the year previous to my marriage.  Never had I received an ungentle word from my father; never in all my waywardness and selfwill did he harshly reprove me.  He steadily endeavored to impress on my mind a sense of the constant presence of God.  He would often say, ’Every moment, every hour of our lives, places its impress on our condition in eternity.  Live, then, as did your mother, in a state of waiting and preparation for that account which we must all surely give for the talents entrusted to our care.’  Did I heed his advice?  You will hardly believe me, Alice, when I tell you how I repaid his tenderness.  I was the cause of his death.”

“It could never be, mother,” said Alice, weeping, when she saw the tears forcing their way down her mother’s cheek.  “You are excited and distressed now.  Do not tell me any more to-night, and forget what I told you.”

Mrs. Weston hardly seemed to hear her.  After a pause of a few moments, she proceeded: 

“It was so, indeed.  I, his only child, was the cause of his death; I, his cherished and beloved daughter, committed an act that broke his heart, and laid the foundation of sorrows for me, that I fear will only end with my life.