There was a bitter groan, and then the wretched woman, his mother, fell half fainting upon a chair. She had just arrived, and eager to see her boy, had entered the room in time to hear what he said. He knew her in a moment, and starting upright in bed, exclaimed, “Woman, look—this is your work—the result of your example. There was a time, long ago—how long ago it seems—but there _was_ a time, I say, when I loathed the very smell of the liquors, which daily graced our table. By little and by little that loathing was overcome. _You_ drank and called it good; and what one’s mother says is true. So I, too, tasted and tasted again until here I am, Herbert Langley, husband of Anna Lee, ruined body and soul—body and soul! What do you say to that, mother?” He sank back upon the bed exhausted; while Aunt Charlotte, who had swooned entirely away, was taken from the room. The shock was too great for her, and for two days she did not again venture into his presence. The next time, however, that she saw him, his mood had changed, and winding his feeble arms around her neck, he wept like a child, asking her to take from his heart the worm which was knawing there. Oh, how I pitied the heartbroken woman! for I well knew she would gladly have lain down her life could that have saved her son. For three days longer he lingered, and then there came the closing scene, which haunted me for months. He had been restless during the night, muttering incoherently, and occasionally striking at the fancied shapes which surrounded him; but towards morning he grew more violent, and at last with a shriek which chilled my blood, he sprang from the bed, and pointing towards the window, whispered, “Hark! Don’t you hear it?—_music from the infernal regions!_ They are come, every demon of them, for me. It’s a grand turnout. There! Don’t you see them with their flaming eyes looking through the windows, and that shriveled hag, whose hair is curling snakes! See! She beckons me with her bony claws, and says I am to be _her_ son. Do you hear that mother? _Her son!_ Go back!” he shouted, leaping towards the window. “You don’t get me this time. I won’t die yet. Give me the Prayer Book, and let me hurl it at her head—that’ll settle her, I reckon.” He would have gone through the window, had not Mr. Watson taken him in his arms and borne him back to the bed, where he held him fast, soothing him as best he could by assuring him there were no such unearthly objects in the room as he supposed. “I know it,” said Herbert, for a moment comparatively rational. “I know what it is. It is DELIRIUM TREMENS, and I know what causes it, too; shall I tell you?” Mr. Watson nodded, and Herbert continued: “_Cider, beer, wine, brandy_—DEATH: that’s the programme which keeps the fire of hell eternally burning. Where is my boy—Anna’s boy and mine?” he asked after a pause. “Do you wish to see him,” asked Mr. Watson.