After the departure of the old lady I began to weave an imaginary tale from the simple incident attending her appearance. Her son was in New Orleans: it was true, the season was healthy,—the winter there being in point of salubrity the very antipodes of the summer,—still, an undefined presentiment of a something yet in embryo glided across my brain. I noted down the facts that had already occurred, and in the mean time gathered materials for other tales. Two months passed away, and a letter remained in the post-office for Mrs. Mary Williams. In taking it up I accidentally noticed the careless manner in which it was folded. The following scraps of sentences were distinct and legible:— “Business very dull—but two dollars a day—sickness—doctor’s bill—I never go to the gambling-house—what made you think so?—send money next week.” It was evident from this that William had got into bad company, and although he denied frequenting the gambling-houses, those sinks of iniquity, those common sewers for draining from the weak and dissipated their hard earnings, yet I felt assured that he was lost, and his mother left in her old days poor and destitute, relying upon the cold charity of the world for the common means of subsistence. Her brave and noble boy, as she had fondly called him, was now drawn into the vortex of vice, from whose baneful and impetuous influence the tears, the cries, the agonizing grief of her who doted upon him, to whose existence her whole soul seemed linked, could not rescue him. The spark of filial affection was extinguished, and the love of pleasures, the gratification of passions, dissipation, and debauchery, had usurped its place. The winter was now passed away with its wrath: storms and tempests with their hail, rain, and snow were rushing down the tide of time, and spring was seen smiling in the dim perspective. It was, I think, in the early part of March, when Mrs. Williams stood at the window. Her whole appearance was changed. I forgot to mention she had previously sent for and received the letter to which I have above alluded. Sickness and sorrow had done their work. Her eyes were sunken, her cheeks more furrowed, and poverty still more strikingly displayed in her person. To her question, “Are there any letters for me?” that powerful monosyllable “No!” was another shock to the poor mother. She stood a while in silence, the tears rolled down her cheeks, she struggled a while to restrain her feelings, then fast flowed the sorrowing waters from a heart surcharged with grief. She turned to depart, but faltered, and at length overcome, she sat down upon the steps of the post-office and wept aloud.