mouth opened at the same time, and remained open, but said nothing.  His large eyes stared wildly around.  At length his teeth chattered, and the text was announced, though half the congregation disputed it.  “My brethren!” said he once, and the whiteness of his countenance increased; but he said no more.  “My bre—­thren!” responded he a second time; his teeth chattered louder; his cheeks became clammy and death-like.  “My brethren!” stammered he a third time emphatically, and his knees fell together.  A deep groan echoed from his mother’s pew.  His wildness increased.  “My mother!” exclaimed the preacher.  They were the last words he ever uttered in a pulpit.  The shaking and the agony began in his heart, and his body caught the contagion.  He covered his face with his hands, fell back, and wept.  His mother screamed aloud, and fell back also; and thus perished her toils, her husband’s prayer, her fond anticipations, and the pulpit oratory of her son.  A few neighbours crowded round her to console her and render her assistance.  They led her to the door.  She gazed upon them with a look of vacancy—­thrice sorrowfully waved her hand, in token that they should leave her; for their words fell upon her heart like dew upon a furnace.  Silently she arose and left them, and reaching her cottage, threw herself upon her bed in bitterness.  She shed no tears; neither did she groan, but her bosom heaved with burning agony.  Sickness smote Thomas to his very heart; yea, even unto blindness he was sick.  His tongue was like heated iron in his mouth, and his throat like a parched land.  He was led from the pulpit.  But he escaped not the persecution of the unfeeling titter, and the expressions of shallow pity.  He would have rejoiced to have dwelt in darkness for ever, but there was no escape from the eyes of his tormentors.  The congregation stood in groups in the kirkyard, “just,” as they said, “to hae anither look at the orator;” and he must pass through the midst of them.  With his very soul steeped in shame, and his cheeks covered with confusion, he stepped from the kirk door.  A humming noise issued through the crowd, and every one turned their faces towards him.  His misery was greater than he could bear.  “Yon was oratory for ye!” said one.  “Poor deevil!” added another, “I’m sorry for him; but it was as guid as a play.”  “Was it tragedy or comedy?” inquired a third, laughing as he spoke.  The remarks fell upon his ear—­he grated his teeth in madness, but he could endure no more; and, covering his face with his hands, he bounded off like a wounded deer to his mother’s cottage.  In despair he entered the house, scarce knowing what he did.  He beheld her where she had fallen upon the bed, dead to all but misery.  “Oh mother, mother!” he cried, “dinna ye be angry—­dinna ye add to the afflictions of your son!  Will ye no, mother?—­will ye no?” A low groan was the only answer.  He hurried to and fro across the room, wringing his hands.  “Mother,” he again exclaimed, “will ye no speak ae word?