bread, a saucer of wild-honey, and another of golden
butter--these constituting the wholesome repast of which Widow White
was partaking.

"Heaven be praised for a comfortable house and bountiful meal!" she
piously ejaculated, rising from her seat with the expression of
gratitude warm from her heart. "If we always have as good, we shall
never have cause to complain."

Although no apparent attention was paid them, these words were
evidently intended for her son, a tall, premature-looking youth,
between the ages of fourteen and fifteen, who had entered the room
only a few moments before, and now stood leaning against the
mantle-piece, beating the devil's tatoo upon the wall, and, from time
to time, whistling snatches of a popular air. His strongly marked
features, though handsome, were bold and repulsive, the upper lip
curling with half a sneer--but it was merely the soul imaged in the
countenance, for, lad as he was, the spirit had quaffed many a deep
draught of sinfulness, while mildew and iciness had crept down and
sullied the purity of his heart, whose stern monitor-angel,
conscience, still vainly strove to awaken rich melody from the chords
which had once vibrated to its slightest touch.

"David," again spoke Widow White in a subdued tone of voice, raising
her eyes to the face of her son, "for the last few days I have been
thinking deeply of the past--thinking what a mighty change fourteen
short, rapid years have wrought in every thing around me. You were a
babe in the cradle then, and the grave of your father was fresh in the
lonely church-yard. The sky of my life was black with the storms of
adversity, and I was very unhappy, for it almost seemed as if the day
which had departed from it never would dawn again. But amidst all this
gloominess and desolation, one star beamed with a constant and steady
radiance, and that star was yourself. I loved you as my life, and
many, many a time, as I rocked you to repose, have I pictured out a
bright and glorious future for you, while my mind thrilled with the
pleasure of its own creations. But a blight has come upon it all. I
loved you _too_ well--too well for either mine or your own good.
Yielding to the fondness of a mother's love, I indulged almost your
every wish, until now, turbulent and self-willed, you spurn my best
and holiest affections as a mockery, and I find, almost too late, that
I have greatly erred. I speak this in no spirit of unkindness, David.
I feel it to