that she had grown to be a drunkard herself.

He had been in a sadly desponding state
for some time before the occurrence of these
domestic calamities. His mother's health, as
he could but too plainly discern every time
he went to see her at the cottage, was failing
fast; and he upbraided himself in secret
as the cause of the bodily and mental suffering
she endured. When, to his remorse
on his mother's account, was added the
shame and misery occasioned by the discovery
of his wife's degradation, he sank under
the double trial—his face began to alter
fast, and he looked what he was, a spirit-
broken man. His mother, still struggling
bravely against the illness that was hurrying
her to the grave, was the first to notice
the sad alteration in him, and the first to
hear of his last bitterest trouble with his
wife. She could only weep bitterly, on the
day when he made his humiliating confession;
but on the next occasion when he went to
see her, she had taken a resolution, in
reference to his domestic afflictions, which
astonished, and even alarmed him. He found
her dressed to go out, and on asking the
reason, received this answer:

"I am not long for this world, Isaac,"
said she; " and I shall not feel easy on
my death-bed, unless I have done my best
to the last, to make my son happy. I mean
to put my own fears and my own feelings out
of the question, and to go with you to your
wife, and try what I can do to reclaim her.
Give me your arm, Isaac; and let me do the
last thing I can in this world to help my son
before it is too late."

He could not disobey her: and they
walked together slowly towards his miserable
home. It was only one o'clock in the
afternoon when they reached the cottage where
he lived. It was their dinner hour, and Rebecca
was in the kitchen. He was thus able to take
his mother quietly into the parlour, and then
prepare his wife for the interview. She had
fortunately drank but little at that early
hour, and she was less sullen and capricious
than usual. He returned to his mother, with
his mind tolerably at ease. His wife soon
followed him into the parlour, and the meeting
between her and Mrs. Scatchard passed
off better than he had ventured to anticipate:
though he observed, with secret apprehension,
that his mother, resolutely as she
controlled herself in other respects, could not
look his wife in the face when she spoke to
her. It was a relief to him, therefore, when
Rebecca began to lay the cloth.

She laid the cloth—brought in the bread-
tray, and cut a slice from the loaf for her
husband—then returned to the kitchen. At
that moment, Isaac, still anxiously watching
his mother, was startled by seeing the same
ghastly change pass over her face, which had
altered it so awfully on the morning when
Rebecca and she first met. Before he could
say a word she whispered with a look of
horror:—

"Take me back!—home, home, again,
Isaac! Come with me, and never come back
again."

He was afraid to ask for an explanation,—
he could only sign to her to be silent, arid
help her quickly to the door. As they passed
the bread-tray on the table she stopped and
pointed to it.

"Did you see what your wife cut your
bread with? " she asked, in a low, still
whisper.

"No, mother,—I was not noticing—what
was it?"

"Look!"

He did look. A new clasp-knife, with a
buck-horn handle lay with the loaf in the
bread-tray. He stretched out his hand, shud-
deringly, to possess himself of it; but, at
the same time, there was a noise in the
kitchen, and his mother caught at his
arm.

'' The knife of the dream!—Isaac, I'm
faint with fear—take me away! before she
comes back!"

He was hardly able to support her—the
visible, tangible reality of the knife struck
him with a panic, and utterly destroyed any
faint doubts that he might have entertained
up to this time, in relation to the mysterious
dream-warning of nearly eight years before.
By a last desperate effort, he summoned self-
possession enough to help his mother quietly
out of the house,—so quietly, that the "dream-
woman " (he thought of her by that name,
now!) did not hear them departing, from
the kitchen.

"Don't go back, Isaac,—don't go back!"
implored Mrs. Scatchard, as he turned
to go away, after seeing her safely seated
again in her own room.

"I must get the knife," he answered, under
his breath. She tried to stop him again;
but he hurried out without another word.

On his return, he found that his wife had
discovered their secret departure from the
house. She had been drinking, and was in
a fury of passion. The dinner in the kitchen
was flung under the grate; the cloth was off
the parlour-table. Where was the knife?
Unwisely, he asked for it. She was only too
glad of the opportunity of irritating him,
which the request afforded her. " He wanted
the knife, did he? Could he give her a reason
why?—No!—Then he should not have
it,—not if he went down on his knees to ask
for it." Further recriminations elicited the
fact that she had bought it a bargain—and
that she considered it her own especial
property. Isaac saw the uselessuess of attempting
to get the knife by fair means, and
determined to search for it, later in the day,
in secret. The search was unsuccessful. Night
came on, and he left the house to walk about
the streets. He was afraid now to sleep in the
same room with her.