"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
inquiry on John Dulan. He did not speak.
"Answer! answer! answer!" almost screamed the mother.
John Dulan turned away.
"Is my son--is my son--dead?"
"He is in heaven, I trust," sobbed John.
A shriek, the most wild, shrill and unearthly that ever came from the
death-throe of a breaking heart, arose upon the air, and echoed
through the woods, and the widow sunk, fainting, to the ground. They
raised her up--the blood was flowing in torrents from her mouth. They
bore her to the house, and laid her on the bed. John Dulan watched
beside her, while the old man hastened to procure assistance.
The life of the widow was despaired of for many weeks. She recovered
from one fit of insensibility, only to relapse into another. At
length, however, she was pronounced out of danger. But the white hair,
silvered within the last few weeks, the strained eyes, contracted brow
and shuddering form, marked the presence of a scathing sorrow.
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