4

unhappy mother. All was dark and gloomy;
no bright fire, now glowed upon the hearth, no
{ ?} hands prepared the cheerful supper--the poor children
cried themselves to sleep, as they lay on their mother's bed,
and not a sound interrupted the stillness, but the
blast of the storm, as they roared round the house, or
the deep groans from two breaking hearts.
At midnight the servants returned, but without any news
of the wanderer. The old man walked the room in agony,
while the wretched mother weak and exhausted by the blood she
had lost, passed the long night groans and tears.
William had fled with the precipitation of one pursued by
an unrelenting enemy; the curses of the father, whose
confidence he had derived, rung in his ear the knell of
departed happiness, and he hastened forwards without purpose or
design. By chance he had taken the road, which led to
Montgomery-court house, near which lived an old uncle, the only
relation he had in the world. Mechanically he pursued the
path he had so often trod, and reached the house just before
the family had gone to bed. His pale and haggard appear-
ance alarmed his good-natured kinsman, who
after setting food before him, would feign hear the
cause of his unexpected appearance. In broken sentences
William told of all that had happened, and his uncle, who
had not those high notions, and rigid scruples of the old
{ ? man}, "could see no such mighty harm," as he said in the matter, urged him to
return, to be of good heart, to pluck up spirit, and all
would be well again. But the young man who knew
better with whom he had to deal, shook his head, as
he sat { ?} chimney corner, hearing over the expiring
embers, or at times started up in agony, wringing his hands
and exclaiming. "No--no--it is all over--had I
{killed?} his daughter he might have forgiven me," but
I have betrayed her innocence--and that he will never