with me but a short time, and then I will tell you the rest. I feel myself sinking; listen. Oh, God! oh, God!—I—I——” He gasped for breath; the muscles of his face worked as if struggling to retain life; his eyes became fixed; his lips muttered sounds,—they were unmeaning. I took his hand: it was cold and stiff. I gazed upon his face: Death’s seal was set forever! * * * * * In the Episcopal churchyard, near C—— Street, is to be seen a neat marble slab, with the following inscription:— _Sacred to the Memory of HENRY MIDDLETON, aged 24 years. Sic transit gloria mundi._ _THE WIDOWED MOTHER._ “Though grief may blight, or sin deface Our youth’s fair promise, or disgrace May brand with infamy and shame. * * * * * A mother, though her heart may break, From that fond heart will never tear The child whose last retreat is there.” ELLEN FITZARTHUR. It was a cold, dreary morning in the month of December, a heavy snow lay upon the ground, and the wind whistled around the northeast corner of the post-office; the streets were nearly deserted; none ventured out but those whose business rendered it absolutely necessary. I sat at the window watching the flakes of snow as they peeled from the roofs of the opposite houses and scattered their whitened particles on the pavement beneath. The Southern mail had arrived, and all the business-letters were delivered; a drowsy feeling crept over me, and I was just falling into the Lethean lake of forgetfulness,—that dreamy portion of our life, without which this paradise, this glorious world, with its riches and its charms, would be as a howling desert. “Sleep, sweet restorer, balmy sleep.” But I am digressing. I was awakened from my slumber by a slight touch upon the elbow and a tremulous voice uttering the words, “Sir! sir!” “Madam!” cried I, starting up. “I am sorry to disturb you, sir, but I wish to know if there are any letters from my son?” Honest creature: she looked the picture of distress; the widow of hope as well as kin, her age apparently about fifty, her dress neat but indicating poverty,—the hand of Time had furrowed her cheek and left his impress there. “From your son, madam?” “Yes, sir, my only son: a good, brave boy, and my only dependence; he lives in New Orleans, and sends me my little allowance every month. Is there any, sir?” “What is your name?” “Williams, sir,—Mary Williams.” “Here are two letters, ma’am, for Mary Williams.” “That is me, sir; and that is his handwriting, dear, good boy! he never will forget his aged mother.” “Fifty cents, ma’am.” “Fifty cents, sir! my William always pays for the letters.” “In this instance he has failed to do so.” “What shall I do?” “I think you said, ma’am, that your son sends you a monthly allowance: so probably one of these letters contains it.” The letter was opened, and, as I anticipated, a ten-dollar bill was enclosed.