My modest trousseau was prepared, and everything packed ready for transport to the vessel in which our passage was taken. It was the evening before our wedding-day, and Philip and I had been for a walk in a quiet silent fashion of our own, taking farewell of the old country. We walked through part of the city, at peace in the soft summer moonlight after its day of unrest; and turning into a church where evening service was going on, knelt down unseen in one of the high pews to join in the prayers. Then we turned our steps homewards--it would ever be home to us where my dear mother was--our hearts too full for words. I was to spend the remainder of this last night alone with her; and as we had previously agreed to do, Philip and I parted at the door. Ah, Philip! how good and true, how handsome you looked as you stood there lingering to say a few last words, before I entered the house! 'Our last parting, Mary! God bless you, dear wife. Try to make our mother believe what you will be to me; it will be her best comfort; and remind her of our agreement. No tears to-morrow.' Ah, me! had sorrow not been too deep for tears, there would have been nothing else on the morrow. I ran hastily up-stairs--we had secured comfortable lodgings with a respectable family for her--and opened the door, looking towards her accustomed seat as I half-uttered some little loving speech; only half-uttered it, and then broke down with a cry of alarm. My mother was lying on the floor in what, for the first few moments, I imagined to be a fainting-fit. Alas! it was more serious than that. Whether the cause was physical or mental, I know not; it is most probable that she had suffered more about the approaching separation between us than she herself would allow; but she was taken up a helpless and incurable invalid, who would never again be able to move from her couch. That was the fiat issued by the medical men on the bright May morning which was to have seen me a happy bride. It was very hard for Philip; and as might naturally be expected, he for a while found it difficult to accede to the sudden change in his prospects. But I knew he was not likely to blame me for acting as I did, after the first bitterness of disappointment was over. After a hurried interview with his brother, in which the latter insisted upon his keeping to his bond, and setting sail with or without me, Philip entreated me to go through the ceremony with him, and let him at least feel that he was leaving a wife. I might soon be left motherless, he pleaded; and in that case, it would be so much easier for me to follow him as his wife.