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 expect him back. One night, you, my
child, were fast asleep; you were my only solace--my comfort in my
loneliness. I had been watching over you in your slumbers; you smiled
and half pronounced the name of mother; and at last I kissed your
unconscious lips, and I knelt and prayed--prayed for God's blessing on
you, my child, and upon him too--little thinking, at the time, that he
was so horribly, so fearfully CURSED."

The widow paused for breath, and then resumed. Philip could not speak.
His lips were sundered, and his eyes riveted upon his mother, as he
devoured her words.

"I left you and went downstairs into that room, Philip, which since
that dreadful night has never been re-opened. I sate me down and read,
for the wind was strong, and when the gale blows, a sailor's wife can
seldom sleep. It was past midnight, and the rain poured down. I felt