When the dreadful intelligence reached Wildgoose's mother, she stood like a statue. She shed no tears; she uttered no lamentations; she stirred neither hand nor foot. At last, uttering a faint scream, she dropped senseless on the floor. Her eldest daughter, and a neighbour who had been called in, got her to bed, and it was long before she came to herself. At first she had but an indistinct recollection of what had happened, and felt as if awaking from a horrible dream. In proportion as her senses returned, she felt that it was no dream, but a sad reality. Her first impulse was to go to her son; but when she attempted to get up, she was unable to stand, and fell back upon the bed. A violent fever came on, attended with almost constant delirium, and the doctor had great apprehensions for her life. The country house of the gentleman, in whose family Lucy Wilmot lived as house-maid, was at a considerable distance; and she had now accompanied her master and mistress to London. It so happened that the sad news did not reach her till a few days before the Assizes. When she had a little recovered from the first dreadful shock, she immediately determined to hasten to poor Wildgoose, in order to give him whatever comfort or assistance his awful situation would admit of. She requested therefore her mistress to allow her a short leave of absence; borrowed a few pounds of the house-keeper, placed herself on the top of a stage, and next morning reached the county town. With an aching heart, and trembling steps, she hurried to the gaol. The gaoler, who, like most of his brethren of the present day, was a kind and humane man, having asked her a few questions, conducted her into his own parlour, and promised to bring Wildgoose to her: adding, that though his duty did not permit him to leave them alone together, yet that they might depend upon his not repeating any thing of what might pass between them. Poor Lucy's heart sickened at the heavy creaking of the door which led to the prisoners' day room; and she was nearly fainting when she heard footsteps approaching the little parlour where she was sitting. When Wildgoose entered, she started up, and without speaking, eagerly tried to take his hand. He, however, uttering a deep groan, clasped both his hands to his face, and turning his head away, burst into a convulsive fit of sobbing. Lucy still held her hand stretched towards him, when he at last said in a smothered voice, "Oh! Lucy, don't try to shake hands with me; the hand of such a good girl as you are must not be touched by the hand of a murderer." He then sank on a bench, and in spite of all his efforts to command himself, gave way to an agony of grief. Lucy could hardly stand; she had, however, been internally seeking strength from Him, who alone can give it, and by his aid was supported. Her ardent wish too, to be of use, led her to exert herself to the utmost. When, after some minutes,