high in the heavens as we turned our boat homeward. It was a glorious night; no sound broke the stillness except the faint dip and splash of the oars, the distant hum of the or the cry of the seamen, as they hoisted more sail on some nearly-becalmed vessel. I had you, a sleeping baby, wrapped up in a shawl on my lap, and Edward's arm was around me, as we sat, in the stern of the boat, talking over our hopes and prospects, and conjuring up bright visions of the future. The greater the happiness we enjoy, Mary, the more we hope to be happier. We thought not of fear, for we were young and sanguine. We spoke of you, our child, and I turned back the shael, that we might peep at your little innocent face, looking so heavenly in the clear moonlight; and I recollect that one of the hardy, weatherbeaten boatmen, seeing the action, told us, almost with tears in his eyes, that he had a little girl at home, about the same age, but that it was a weak, puny little thing, and he thought it would not live; and I remember how your father drew his arm more closely about me, and how sorry I felt for the sick child’s mother, and yet how glad that I was not so afflicted, for you were well, and healthy, and strong. I remember this; for every trifling incident that took place, almost every word that was spoken on that fearful night—forgotten, perhaps, five minutes afterwards—is now firmly, indelibly fixed on my mind. But why do I linger on these trifles? It is because I shrink from relating the terrible event that followed. But, sooner or later, it must be told.
"We reached the shore, went home, and shortly retired to rest; you lay in the same bed with us, nestled under my arm. Your father was soon sound asleep, and you, poor little one, had been so for hours before; yet, somehow or other, I could not sleep, but lay tossing about in the bed, heated and restless; or if I did fall into a doze, it was only to start up, in a few minutes, from some bad dream, which had seemed to last for hours. It was odd that this should have been the case, for before going to bed my thoughts had been all of hope and happiness; but so it was. About one in the morning—I know that was the time, for I remember hearing the clock strike while I was thinking of it—about one, I suddenly recollected that some medicine which Edward was still in the habit of taking, and which he often used in the night, had been left down stairs in the library. Fearing lest he might awake and find it wanting, I determined to go for it; so, stealing quietly out of bed, without disturbing him, I wrapped a cloak around me, and groped my way in the dark out of the room and down stairs to fetch it. I did not strike a light, lest the noise and glare might awaken Edward; and I thought I knew exactly where to put my hand upon the bottle. I am not naturally nervous—at least, I was not before that night—but I believe every one feels a strange sensation when wandering alone about a dark house at midnight; perhaps, too, the horrible things I had dreamt had left a gloomy superstitious tinge on my mind. At all events, I paused on the stairs, irresolute, and half inclined to return. Would to God I had! But, ashamed of this weakness, I conquered my irresolution, if not my fears, and went on. Trembling and starting at every little sound I heard, or fancied I heard, I felt my way into the room, and to the shelf where the bottle had been left; but did not find it so easily as I had expected, and it must have been full five minutes before I was able to put my hand upon it. Having, at last, got it, I went back to the stairs, and began
