“Oh, yes.  She is one of my earliest friends.”

The allusion to her did not seem to awaken agreeable states of mind.  A slight shade obscured his face, and I noticed that he sighed involuntarily.

“Is Willy her only child?”

“Her only living child.  She had four; another son, and two daughters; but she lost all but Willy when they were quite young.  And,” he added, after a pause,—­“it would have been better for her, and for Willy, too, if he had gone to a better land with them.”

“His course of life must be to her a terrible affliction.” said I.

“It is destroying her reason,” he replied, with emphasis, “He was her idol.  No mother ever loved a son with more self-devotion than Mrs. Hammond loved her beautiful, fine-spirited, intelligent, affectionate boy.  To say that she was proud of him, is but a tame expression.  Intense love—­almost idolatry—­was the strong passion of her heart.  How tender, how watchful was her love!  Except when at school, he was scarcely ever separated from her.  In order to keep him by her side, she gave up her thoughts to the suggestion and maturing of plans for keeping his mind active and interested in her society—­and her success was perfect.  Up to the age of sixteen or seventeen, I do not think he had a desire for other companionship than that of his mother.  But this, you know, could not last.  The boy’s maturing thought must go beyond the home and social circle.  The great world, that he was soon to enter, was before him; and through loopholes that opened here and there he obtained partial glimpses of what was beyond.  To step forth into this world, where he was soon to be a busy actor and worker, and to step forth alone, next came in the natural order of progress.  How his mother trembled with anxiety, as she saw him leave her side!  Of the dangers that would surround his path, she knew too well; and these were magnified by her fears—­at least so I often said to her.  Alas! how far the sad reality has outrun her most fearful anticipations.

“When Willy was eighteen—­he was then reading law—­I think I never saw a young man of fairer promise.  As I have often heard it remarked of him, he did not appear to have a single fault.  But he had a dangerous gift—­rare conversational powers, united with great urbanity of manner.  Every one who made his acquaintance became charmed with his society; and he soon found himself surrounded by a circle of young men, some of whom were not the best companions he might have chosen.  Still, his own pure instincts and honorable principles were his safeguard; and I never have believed that any social allurements would have drawn him away from the right path, if this accursed tavern had not been opened by Slade.”

“There was a tavern here before the ‘Sickle and Sheaf’ was opened?” said I.