On the day previous to George’s departure, he gave his father a cabinet of ebony, curiously inlaid, and of costly and peculiar workmanship, which a French prisoner, whose release he had been instrumental in procuring in one of the British ports, had prevailed upon him to accept as a token of gratitude for the service. “Thank you, my son,” said Mr. Fayerweather, not a little gratified; “that will be just the thing for my valuable papers, the little trunk I keep them in is too crowded.” “I wish you would let me have that, sir, to take with me; I always took a fancy to it,” rejoined his son. “You shall have it, and Judith shall have a jewel-box well filled on her wedding-day, too.” So saying, Mr. Fayerweather ran down stairs to the counting-room and quickly returned with the little trunk in his hand to his own chamber, where he and his son had been communing. He sat down panting, and remained a minute or two without speaking, with his hand on his side. “What’s the matter, sir, that you are so out of breath?” his son anxiously inquired; “why didn’t you let me go for you? I didn’t know what you left the room for.” “Oh, it’s nothing but a slight palpitation of the heart, to which I have been subject a little of late—it will soon go off.” It did not go off, however, and the attack continued longer than usual; but Mr. Fayerweather without heeding it, or suffering any indications of it to appear before his son, proceeded to remove the papers into their new place of deposit—and George took the little trunk into his own possession. The day after Mr. Fayerweather felt more unwell than he was willing to make known, wishing to spare his family any additional weight upon their spirits, at the time of his son’s departure. After this his attacks became more frequent and of longer duration, rendering it impossible to conceal them any longer from Madam, who, in alarm, sent immediately for Dr. Holly. The latter, upon inquiring into the symptoms, and examining the pulse of his patient, looked grave. His prescriptions were successful, however, and Mr. Fayerweather in a few weeks appeared to be restored to his usual health. But to return to George; his usual gay spirits deserted him as he was taking his leave of Judith, and a depression wholly unknown to him before seized him, as the boat which was to bear him to the vessel appeared merrily dancing over the waves to the wharf, opposite the window near which they were standing. “Farewell, Judith!” said he, then adding playfully, but with a voice not wholly free from a slight tremor, “when I return, do not let me find you the bride of some dashing Englishman.” “Oh, George! how can you say so?” she replied, the tears gushing into her eyes; “how can you think I could ever be the bride of any man but you; but if there is any truth in dreams, the one I had last night, tells me I shall never be a bride.”