This imbecility could not last long. I gradually recovered my composure, and collected my scattered thoughts. I looked at her with seriousness, and steadfastly spoke:—"Are you the wife of Amos Watson?"
She started:—"I am indeed. Why do you ask? Do you know any thing of——?" There her voice failed.
I replied with quickness, "Yes. I am fully acquainted with his destiny."
"Good God!" she exclaimed, in a paroxysm of surprise, and bending eagerly forward, "my husband is then alive! This packet is from him. Where is he? When have you seen him?"
"'Tis a long time since."
"But where, where is he now? Is he well? Will he return to me?"
"Never."
"Merciful Heaven!" (looking upwards and clasping her hands,) "I thank thee at least for his life! But why has he forsaken me? Why will he not return?"
"For a good reason," said I, with augmented solemnity, "he will never return to thee. Long ago was he laid in the cold grave."
She shrieked; and, at the next moment, sunk in a swoon upon the floor. I was alarmed. The two children shrieked, and ran about the room terrified and unknowing what they did. I was overwhelmed with somewhat like terror, yet I involuntarily raised the mother in my arms, and cast about for the means of recalling her from this fit.