unbroken silence of those untenanted rooms,
and that never opened door on the left side of her hall, which she must
pass whenever she went in or out of her house. There were those who said
that she was never seen to look towards that door; and that whenever a
noise, as of a rat in the wall, or a blind creaking in the wind, came from
that side of the house, Mrs. Billy turned white, and shuddered. Well she
might. It is a fearful thing to have lying on one's heart in this life the
consciousness that one has been ever so innocently the occasion, if not
the cause, of a fellow-creature's turning aside into the path which was
destined to take him to his death.

The very next day after Billy Jacobs's funeral, his widow left the house.
She sold all the furniture, except what was absolutely necessary for a
very meagre outfitting of the little cottage into which she moved. The
miserly habit of her husband seemed to have suddenly fallen on her like a
mantle. Her life shrank and dwindled in every possible way; she almost
starved herself and her boy, although the rent of her old homestead was
quite enough to make them comfortable. In a few years, to complete the
poor woman's misery, her son ran away and went to sea. The sea-farer's
stories which his Uncle John had told him, when he was a little child,
had never left his mind; and the drearier his mother made life for him on
land, the more longingly he dwelt on his fancies of life at sea, till at
last, when he was only fifteen, he disappeared one day, leaving a note,
not for his mother, but for his Sunday-school teacher,--the only human
being he loved. This young woman carried the note to Mrs. Jacobs. She read
it, made no comment, and handed it back. Her visitor was chilled and
terrified by her manner.

"Can I do any thing for you, Mrs. Jacobs?" she said. "I do assure you I
sympathize with you most deeply. I think the boy will soon come back. He
will find the sea life very different from what he has dreamed."

"No, you can do nothing for me," replied Mrs. Jacobs, in a voice as
unmoved as her face. "He will never come back. He will be drowned." And
from that day no one ever heard her mention her son. It was believed,
however, that she had news from him, and that she sent him money; for,
although the rents of her house were paid to her regularly, she grew if
possible more and more penurious every year, allowing herself barely
enough food to support life, and wearing such tattered and p