I did all a man could do to reclaim her.  Quite useless!  She had never really returned the love I felt for her:  I had no influence; I could do nothing.  My mother, hearing of this last worse trouble, resolved to try what her influence could do.  Ill as she was, I found her one day dressed to go out.

“I am not long for this world, Francis,” she said.  “I shall not feel easy on my deathbed, unless I have done my best to the last to make you happy.  I mean to put my own fears and my own feelings out of the question, and go with you to your wife, and try what I can do to reclaim her.  Take me home with you, Francis.  Let me do all I can to help my son, before it is too late.”

How could I disobey her?  We took the railway to the town:  it was only half an hour’s ride.  By one o’clock in the afternoon we reached my house.  It was our dinner hour, and Alicia was in the kitchen.  I was able to take my mother quietly into the parlor and then to prepare my wife for the visit.  She had drunk but little at that early hour; and, luckily, the devil in her was tamed for the time.

She followed me into the parlor, and the meeting passed off better than I had ventured to forecast; with this one drawback, that my mother—­though she tried hard to control herself—­shrank from looking my wife in the face when she spoke to her.  It was a relief to me when Alicia began to prepare the table for dinner.

She laid the cloth, brought in the bread tray, and cut some slices for us from the loaf.  Then she returned to the kitchen.  At that moment, while I was still anxiously watching my mother, I was startled by seeing the same ghastly change pass over her face which had altered it in the morning when Alicia and she first met.  Before I could say a word, she started up with a look of horror.

“Take me back!—­home, home again, Francis!  Come with me, and never go back more!”

I was afraid to ask for an explanation; I could only sign her to be silent, and help her quickly to the door.  As we passed the bread tray on the table, she stopped and pointed to it.

“Did you see what your wife cut your bread with?” she asked.

“No, mother; I was not noticing.  What was it?”

“Look!”

I did look.  A new clasp knife, with a buckhorn handle, lay with the loaf in the bread tray.  I stretched out my hand to possess myself of it.  At the same moment, there was a noise in the kitchen, and my mother caught me by the arm.

“The knife of the Dream!  Francis, I’m faint with fear—­take me away before she comes back!”

I couldn’t speak to comfort or even to answer her.  Superior as I was to superstition, the discovery of the knife staggered me.  In silence, I helped my mother out of the house; and took her home.

I held out my hand to say good-by.  She tried to stop me.

“Don’t go back, Francis! don’t go back!”.

“I must get the knife, mother.  I must go back by the next train.”  I held to that resolution.  By the next train I went back.