no longer any relish for the amusements of the village. With
humiliation and diffidence, she sought the widowed mother of Eugene;
but was received by her with an overflowing heart; for she only beheld
in Annette one who could sympathize in her doting fondness for her
son. It seemed some alleviation of her remorse to sit by the mother
all day, to study her wants, to beguile her heavy hours, to hang about
her with the caressing endearments of a daughter, and to seek by every
means, if possible, to supply the place of the son, whom she
reproached herself with having driven away.

In the mean time, the ship made a prosperous voyage to her destined
port. Eugene's mother received a letter from him, in which he lamented
the precipitancy of his departure. The voyage had given him time for
sober reflection. If Annette had been unkind to him, he ought not to
have forgotten what was due to his mother, who was now advanced in
years. He accused himself of selfishness, in only listening to the
suggestions of his own inconsiderate passions. He promised to return
with the ship, to make his mind up to his disappointment, and to think
of nothing but making his mother happy--"And when he does return,"
said Annette, clasping her hands with transport, "it shall not be my
fault if he ever leaves us again."

The time approached for the ship's return. She was daily expected,
when the weather became dreadfully tempestuous. Day after day brought
news of vessels foundered, or driven on shore, and the coast was
strewed with wrecks. Intelligence was received of the looked-for ship
having been seen dismasted in a violent storm, and the greatest fears
were entertained for her safety.

Annette never left the side of Eugene's mother. She watched every
change of her countenance with painful solicitude, and endeavoured to
cheer her with hopes, while her own mind was racked by anxiety. She
tasked her efforts to be gay; but it was a forced and unnatural
gayety: a sigh from the mother would completely check it; and when she
could no longer restrain the rising tears, she would hurry away and
pour out her agony in secret. Every anxious look, every anxious
inquiry of the mother, whenever a door opened, or a strange face
appeared, was an arrow to her soul. She considered every
disappointment as a pang of her own infliction, and her heart sickened
under the careworn expression of the maternal eye. At length this
suspense became insupportable. She left the v