ve posture. "I must go
to bed--I must not look pale with watching, to-morrow, and alarm my
good son. It is just as it was before--he cannot get across the river
to-night. I shall see him early to-morrow." Removing the things from
about the fire, and setting the room in the nicest order, the widow
retired to bed.

She rose early in the morning, to prepare a good breakfast for her
son. "He shall have buckwheat cakes this morning; he is so fond of
them," said she, as she busied herself in preparation.

Everything was in readiness, yet William came not. The morning passed
on. The mother grew impatient.

"It is certainly high time he was here now," said she; "I will go
through the woods, toward the high-road, and see if he is coming," and
putting on her bonnet and shawl, she set out. She had just entered the
wood when two advancing figures caught her attention. The path was so
narrow that they were walking one behind the other.

"Ah! there he is--and John Dulan is with him," exclaimed the mother as
they drew near.

The foremost man was indeed John Dulan, who held out his hand as they
met.

"Ah! how do you do, John? How do you do? This is so kind of you! But,
stand aside--excuse me--I want to see that youth behind you!" and the
widow brushed past him, and caught to her bosom--old Ben, the
ferryman.

"My gracious! I thought you were my son! Dear me, how absurd!"
exclaimed the widow, releasing him.

"Let us go on to the cottage, aunt," said John Dulan, sadly.

"Yes, do. I am looking every minute for William. Oh, you can tell me,
Uncle Ben--did he reach the ferry last night?"

"Yes, madam," groaned the old man.

"Why, you alarm me! Why didn't he come home, then?"

"He did try--he did try! I begged him not to--but he would! Oh, dear!
oh, dear!"

"Why, what in Heaven's name is the matter? What has happened? Is my
son ill?"

"Tell her, Mr. Dulan--tell her! I could not, to save my life!"

The widow turned very pale.

"Where is William? Where is my son? Is he ill? Is he ill?"

"My dearest aunt, do try to compose yourself!" said John Dulan, in a
trembling voice.

"Where is my son? Where is he?"

"You cannot see him to-day----"

"Yet he was at the ferry-house last night! Great God! it cannot be!"
cried the mother, suddenly growing very pale and faint, "Oh, no!
Merciful Providence--such sorrow cannot be in store for me? He is
not----"

She could not finish the sentence, but turned a look of agonizing
inqui