“They are making a wonderful great noise nailing up the boxes, and I seen them cording the trunks as I came through the hall. I asked them, could I be of any use: but they said I could be of none, and that’s true; for, when I put my hand to the cord, to pull it, I had no more strength than an infant. It was seven-and-twenty years last Midsummer-day since I first had you an infant in my arms. I was strong enough then, and you--was a sweet babby. Had I seen that time all that would come to pass this day! But that’s over now. I have done a wicked thing; but I’ll send for Father Murphy, and get absolution before I die.” She sighed deeply, then went on speaking more quickly. “But I can do nothing until you go. What time will you go in the morning, dear? It’s better go early. Is it in the coach you’ll go? I see it in the yard. But I thought you must leave the coach, with all the rest, to the rightful heir. But my head’s not clear about it all, I believe--and no matter.” Her ideas rambled from one subject to another in an unconnected manner. I endeavoured in vain to recall her understanding by speaking of her own immediate interests; of the house that was secured to her for life; and of the promise that had been made me, that she should never _want for any thing_, and that she should be treated with all possible kindness. She seemed to listen to me; but showed that she did not comprehend what I said, by her answers; and, at every pause I made, she repeated the same question-- “What time will you go in the morning, dear?” At last I touched her feelings, and she recovered her intellect, when I suddenly asked, if she would accompany me to England the next morning. “Ay, that I will,” cried she, “go with you through the wide world.” She burst into tears, and wept bitterly for some time. “Ah! now I feel right again,” said she; “this is what I wanted; but could not cry this many a day--never since the word came to me that you was going, and all was lost.” I assured her that I now expected to be happier than I had ever been. “Oh!” cried she: “and have you never been happy all this time? What a folly it was for me, then, to do so wicked a thing! and all my comfort was, the thinking you was happy, dear. And what will become of you now? And is it on foot you’ll go?” Her thoughts rambled again. “Whatever way I go, you shall go with me,” said I. “You are my mother; and now that your son has done what he knows to be honest and just, he will prosper in the world, and will be truly happy; and so may you be happy, now that you have nothing more to conceal.” She shook her head.