a heart that has tasted life's bitter waters is able to administer suitable solace to an afflicted soul; and hence it was that grace lloyd approved herself such an angel of mercy to mary stauncy when the news of the captain's execution reached the village. 'i'll step in,' she said to herself, 'before mary hears of it from rougher tongues, and it may be that a little tender womanly comfort will prove a balm to her wounded spirit.'

on entering the house, she found her seated in the captain's arm-chair, with her children on 'crickets' beside her, reposing their heads on her lap, and looking up occasionally for a smile, which played mechanically for a moment around her lips, and then disappeared before a settled sadness, which had already given a new impression to her features. cautiously and kindly did the good woman reveal to her the melancholy fact that she was a widow, and endeavoured to break the force of the shock by referring to her own trying experiences when left with six little ones to struggle for life. to her great surprise no very extraordinary emotion was manifested. the heart of the bereaved one seemed stunned; and when grace bade her good-night, it was with the reflection, 'would that she had wept! the strands of that fine mind will begin to unravel, unless she is wonderfully supported from above.'

and truly her vigorous nature, strengthened by a divine hand, bore up marvellously. it is true she became, as people were pleased to call her, 'the melancholy widow,' so fixed and habitual was her dejection, so silent and reserved her demeanour; but every one respected as well as pitied her, and no one thought of treating her less considerately because of the stigma of the captain's end. in all probability she would have recovered something of her former cheerfulness in time, if the clouds had not returned again after the rain, and the sorrows of bereavement, like chasing billows, swept over her head once more. her children sickened and died. scarce three months had elapsed from the time of her great trouble, when the youngest fair one was taken away, and ten days after her sister followed her.

the afflicted woman was stricken to the earth, and the trembling balance which had given promise of adjustment was unable to right itself. her reason reeled, and from that time forth she was all weakness or all wildness. at first, and for more than a twelve-month, she seemed constantly elevated, courting conversation, and carrying herself with an appearance of gaiety more pitiable than her previous despondency. there appeared to be no intermission to the pleasing fancies of her unsettled mind, and day after day was passed amid the imaginary life pictures which her disordered brain created. every evening she arranged the tea-table, in expectation of stauncy's return, and would converse with him, just as though he were present, until the church clock struck eleven, the hour at which he left her for his last voyage; when, bidding him farewell, she would retire to rest satisfied and happy.

in course of time, however, a change, a great change, took place. the smile departed from her countenance, and she became irritable and restless. her conversation, instead of being marked by strange and even amusing fancies, became sarcastic and bitter. she looked on all around her as enemies, and treated them as such, scarcely tolerating the presence even of her old and faithful friend grace lloyd. though comparatively young, she began to wear the appearance of an old woman; and as she talked to herself when walking abroad, and had a wild and threatening eye, the children shunned her as something to be dreaded. in one sense the strength and acuteness of her mind returned, but it was power displaced, and wielded by a nature that had become completely inverted. so smart, so truthful and revealing, so charged with knowingness and pungency, in many cases so personal were her utterances, that, amongst a people superstitiously disposed, she came at length to be regarded as a witch. they both courted and feared her; and when ten long years had passed away from the time of her husband's death, no one would have recognised in that sallow, shrunken, scowling woman, who kept every one at bay, the blithe, generous, high-minded wife of captain stauncy.

during the whole of those years mr. benjamin phillipson most faithfully kept his father's charge. a weekly sum was allowed to the widow, sufficient to provide both necessaries and comforts; but suddenly the supply ceased, without any explanation being given. it was currently reported that, as the gentleman had married, the change was effected by his wife, who, ignorant of the facts of the case, considered that parish pay would be amply sufficient. be that as it may, the lonely and avoided widow was left destitute at a time she especially needed assistance, and a change of residence was the first thing rendered necessary. a small cottage at the top of the village was taken for her by grace lloyd, who made herself responsible for the rent, and managed, by appealing to a few well-disposed friends, to add something to the workhouse allowance.

the wrong which had been done her was keenly felt by the forlorn widow, and bitterly did she execrate the name of phillipson. unfortunately everything went wrong with mary in her new abode. she disliked it thoroughly, and, having the strongest repugnance to parish pay, would pass whole days without tasting food of any kind. from no hands but those of her old friend would she receive anything; and, what with insufficient support and the wearing influence of her excited mind, her health began visibly to decline. grace lloyd watched over her with a mother's tenderness, though often abused and repulsed. whilst others forsook her, declaring that she had an evil eye, this constant friend stood by and shielded her, the memory of the past being an ever-living presence in her affectionate heart.

one fine bright morning, in the month of june 1766, having treated herself at breakfast to that devonshire luxury, a potato cake, she took part of it to mary, whom she found rocking herself in a high-backed chair, and looking unusually wild and haggard. 'i've brought you something warm for breakfast, mary,' she said in a soothing voice, 'and i'll make you a cup of tea in a minute.'

'keep your gifts for those who want them!' the widow replied hastily and with an angry look. 'the hawk flutters over the sparrow, but the eagle pounces on the hawk. if one world cannot bind a phillipson, another can. i shall have a breakfast fit for a queen directly.'

'i am glad to hear it, mary,' said grace, willing to humour her fancy; 'but won't you take what your old friend has brought you first?'

'no,' she answered snappishly. 'you think i'm raving; but i tell you that old phillipson came to me last night, and said, "mary, you've been a neglected woman, but you shall be provided for again before the sun is high." i saw him with my own eyes. i heard him with my own ears. as sure as the lamp of day is lighted again this morning, so sure will his words come true.'

she had scarcely concluded these strange remarks when a tap was heard at the door, and mrs. benjamin phillipson entered, followed by a footman carrying a large basket.

'mary,' she said, 'i've brought you some nice nourishing things, and mr. phillipson will renew his weekly payments as before. i'm sorry you've not been comfortable lately, but we'll try to make you so.'

'false! false as ever!' replied the widow in a contemptuous tone; 'this is not your choice. you have come at a dead man's bidding, haven't you? a pleasant dream you must have had, and a visitor that won't be trifled with, or you wouldn't have been such an early bird. and now let me tell you what i see. the snow is on the ground, and ben phillipson is in his coffin. there is a midnight funeral. his two hounds sit at the posts of the churchyard gate, as the bier is borne slowly along, and whine for their master. a widow sits husbandless, then childless, then— fine lady, depart the way you came, to him who sent you, and say the ban of heaven forbids his gifts.'

remarkable as these coincidences must appear, they really occurred. the writer attempts no explanation. possibly it was the very night when the old merchant, hiding in some foreign land, was summoned to his account. of such coincidences many examples are on record, not in popular experience only, but in the books of medical science and philosophical observation. certain also it is, that the young merchant endeavoured to ingratiate himself into mary's good favour from that day, and would have supplied her with money enough to provide for every want, but she refused his assistance, and would never tolerate his presence.

the summer passed away. the snows of winter began to fall; but, bitterly cold and biting as the season was, a dense crowd assembled in northam churchyard one frosty night, to witness a funeral appointed for the hour of twelve. the moon shone faintly on the nodding plumes which adorned the hearse, and aided with its sombre light the solemnity of the scene, as the remains of benjamin phillipson were borne to their last resting-place. his two hounds sat at the gateway, and howled dismally as the sad procession walked toward the church, and near at hand was a diminutive woman, wrapped in a cloak, who laughed, and thanked them for their funeral ode. she tarried until the coffin had been lowered into the family vault, and then, talking wildly to herself, hasted to her home, and rocked herself into a frenzy.

the day passed, and mary's door remained unopened. the night followed, but no light gleamed from her cottage window, and when morning dawned again the signs of life were still wanting. the door had been more than once tried by grace lloyd, but, becoming alarmed, and having secured the assistance of a neighbour, an entrance was effected through the window.

the high-backed rocking-chair was turned over, so that its top rested against the hatch, and across it, with her head downwards, lay mary stauncy, dead. how she came into that position there was no one to tell. the common belief was—and it lingers as a superstition to this day—that she had been roughly handled by the evil spirit with whom she had communion, and that in the struggle she had fallen over and perished. but wiser minds and tenderer hearts knew another interpretation. in a fit of delirium she had torn her garments, and paced the cottage floor a raving maniac. and as her hour came on, and the death-throe troubled her, she had leant for support on that rolling chair, overturning it as she fell. thus died a woman whose character would have shone brighter and brighter but for the merchant's temptation and the captain's sin, and who perished untimely, as the pitiable victim of an unholy and fatal vow.