boys of his age generally possess; and his roving, independent, out-of-
door existence had served to ripen his understanding. He had certainly,
in spite of every precaution, arrived at some, though not very distinct,
notion of his peculiar position; but none of its inconveniences had
visited him till that day. He began now to turn his eyes to the future;
and vague and dark forebodings--a consciousness of the shelter, the
protector, the station, he had lost in his father's death--crept coldly,
over him. While thus musing, a ring was heard at the bell; he lifted his
head; it was the postman with a letter. Philip hastily rose, and,
averting his face, on which the tears were not dried, took the letter;
and then, snatching up his little basket of fruit, repaired to his
mother's room.

The shutters were half closed on the bright day--oh, what a mockery is
there in the smile of the happy sun when it shines on the wretched! Mrs.
Morton sat, or rather crouched, in a distant corner; her streaming eyes
fixed on vacancy; listless, drooping; a very image of desolate woe; and
Sidney was weaving flower-chains at her feet.

"Mamma!--mother!" whispered Philip, as he threw his arms round her neck;
"look up! look up!-my heart breaks to see you. Do taste this fruit: you
will die too, if you go on thus; and what will become of us--of Sidney?"

Mrs. Morton did look up vaguely into his face, and strove to smile.

"See, too, I have brought you a letter; perhaps good news; shall I break
the seal?"

Mrs. Morton shook her head gently, and took the letter--alas! how
different from that one which Sidney had placed in her hands not two