resumed. Philip could not speak.
His lips were sundered, and his eyes riveted upon his mother, as he
devoured her words.

"I left you and went down stairs into that room, Philip, which since
that dreadful night has never been re-opened. I sate me down and read,
for the wind was strong, and when the gale blows, a sailor's wife can
seldom sleep. It was past midnight, and the rain poured down. I felt
unusual fear,--I knew not why, I rose from the couch and dipped my
finger in the blessed water, and I crossed myself. A violent gust of
wind roared round the house and alarmed me still more. I had a painful,
horrible foreboding; when, of a sudden, the windows and window-shutters
were all blown in, the light was extinguished, and I was left in utter
darkness. I screamed with fright--but at last I recovered myself, and
was proceeding towards the window that I might reclose it, when whom
should I behold, slowly entering at the casement, but--your father,--
Philip!--Yes, Philip,--it was your father!"

"Merciful God!" muttered Philip, in a low tone almost subdued into a
whisper.

"I knew not what to think,--he was in the room; and although the
darkness was intense, his form and features were as clear and as defined
as if it were noon-day. Fear would have inclined me to recoil from,--
his loved presence to fly towards him. I remained on the spot where I
was, choked with agonising sensations. When he had entered the room,
the windows and shutters closed of themselves, and the candle was
relighted--then I thought it was his apparition, and I fainted on the
floor.

"When I recovered I found myself on the couch, and perceived that a cold
(O how cold!) and dripping hand was clasped in mine. This reassured me,
and I forgot the supernatural signs which accompanied his appearance. I
imagined that he had been unfortunate, and had returned home. I opened
my eyes, and beheld my loved husband and threw myself into his arms.
His clothes were saturated with the rain; I felt as if I had embraced
ice--but nothing can check the warmth of woman's love, Philip. He
received my caresses but he caressed not again: he spoke not, but looked
thoughtful and unhappy. `William--William,' cried I; `speak, to your
dear Catherine.'

"`I will,' replied he, solemnly, `for my time is short.'

"`No, no, you must not go to sea again; you have lost your vessel but
you are safe. Have I not you again?'

"`Alas! no--be not alarmed, but listen? for