The first fact that attracted his attention was the circumstance that he was not in his own apartment, but in his mother's bedchamber. A small wood fire was burning in the fireplace, and a teakettle was hanging over the blaze; the red hearth was neat and bright, and the only window was darkened by the lowered paper blind. Phædra sat in her flag-bottomed elbow-chair, at the chimney corner; her work was on her lap, but she sat with her hands clasped upon it in idleness, and in an attitude of deepest grief. Such was the picture immediately before him. He could not tell the hour, but supposed it to be near midday. He strove, through the aching of his head and heart, to recall the latest events of his waking consciousness, before he had fallen into the sleep or the insensibility from which he had just recovered. And, as memory came back in a rushing flood, bringing the hideous phantoms of the previous night's history, overcome with shame and sorrow, he groaned aloud, and buried his face in the pillow. Still he was in ignorance of what had occurred after he had sprung from the buggy; and in terror for what might have happened to Mr. Waring, whom he had left there to guide as he could, in a state of extreme intoxication, the frightened and rearing horses. Phædra arose and approached the bed. "Mother! tell me what has happened, for I remember nothing after getting home," said the boy, in a voice half smothered in emotion. But Phædra sank down by the bedside, buried her face in the coverlid, and sobbed. "Mother! tell me the worst at once. Was he thrown out? Is he dead?" asked Valentine, in a deep, breathless, husky voice, as he raised upon his elbow and leaned forward, his light eyes, from the tangled thicket of his dark hair, turning upon her like coals at a white heat. "No, no, he is not dead. But it was a very narrow escape. Oh! Valley, such a good Providence, my boy," she said, taking his disengaged hand and hugging it closely to her bosom, and weeping over it, as if that hand had been saved from some great calamity. "Tell me all about it, mother." But Phædra was sobbing and choking, and could not utter a word more then. "Where is he now, mother?" asked Valentine, after a little while. "In his room--unable to rise, but out of danger, the doctor says." A few more minutes passed in silence. Phædra rose and resumed her chair and her needlework, though the sudden sobs and deep heavings of her bosom betrayed the storm of grief still beating. "Mother," said Valentine, after a few moments longer, "can you tell me now all about it? How did I get home? How did he? What happened to the buggy?" "Oh, Valentine, first of all, you came home in a state that made my heart sick to see. I can't tell you how; but I hope never to see the like again. I could not have got you upstairs without help, but I managed to get you in here, and to bed, without any one seeing you." "Mother----"