oon be gone, and from which the stern justice of an
accusing conscience tells her she may be forever excluded.

And oh! if this be truth, if in the world beyond there is no hope for
sinful souls that have gone astray in this, and this parting _is_
eternal, then, oh then, through the long, dark ages of suffering which
may be her future portion, never to look upon her darling more, never
more to kiss the sweet lips that have called her mother, never more to
look upon him here till the silken lashes droop toward the marble cheek
and the half-veiled eyes have lost their lustre, and they lead her in
for a last look ere the little face is shut out from mortal gaze
forever!--oh! the unutterable anguish of that thought, and the remorse
which mingles with it! Not for that last dreadful act, for she never
knew that she had killed him. No clear remembrance of that day lives
within to curse her memory, but she knows that a strange and
unaccountable dread of her has seized upon the child, that she is
banished from his dying presence; and an undefined and vague
remembrance, a misty horror, has fallen on her life, rests on her like
an incubus, pursues her in a thousand phantom shapes through the long,
dark watches of the terror-laden night, and through burdened days of
ceaseless suffering. She knows, for they have told her, that when his
consciousness returned, his first cry had been for the mother of his
heart; that she had left everything and come to him; that she had taken
her place beside his bed, a dearer place than she had ever occupied in
his heart; that no hands like those chill, magnetic ones could soothe
him in his pain, or charm him to his fitful slumbers; that on no bosom
could the throbbing head rest so tranquilly as on her own. What the
mother's heart suffered in that knowledge when her better nature
prevailed, only the Being knows Who framed it. The hours of the long day
wore heavily on. The sun, that had paused awhile in mid-heaven, was now
sinking slowly toward the west. Yet, unmindful of food or rest, seated
in the same corner into which she had shrunk on entering the room, ever
and anon rocking herself to and fro, or wringing her hands in silent
agony, there sits the wretched mother, hidden watcher by the bedside of
her dying boy. The room has been chosen for its retired situation, and
is removed from the noise of household occupations; and the bustle of
the crowded street, even in its busiest hours, falls on the ear