for a little while:—­what will become of me!’ I offered to procure the medicine for her, and soon returned with it.  I gave it into her hands, and her vehement expressions of thankfulness wrung my heart.  I had attempted to move the pity of the apothecary at whose shop I obtained the drug, by an account of the scene I had witnessed, in order to induce him to pay a visit to the house of mourning; but in vain.  To him, who had not witnessed it, it was nothing but a tale of every-day distress.  All that long night I worked at the merchant’s coffin, and the dim grey light of the wintry morning found me still toiling on.  Often, during the hours passed thus heavily, that picture of wretchedness rose before me.  Again I saw the leaning and exhausted form of the young man, buried in slumber, on his father’s death-bed:  again my carpenter’s rule almost touched the clasped hands of the dead and the living, and a cold shudder mingled with the chill of the dawning day, and froze my blood.”

“As I passed up one of the streets which led to the merchant’s lodgings, my head bending under the weight of the coffin I was carrying, at every step I took, the air seemed to grow more thick around me, and at length, overcome by weariness, both of body and mind, I stopped, loosed the straps which steadied my melancholy burden, and placing it in an upright position against the wall, wiped the dew from my forehead, and (shall I confess it?) the tears from my eyes.  I was endeavouring to combat the depression of my feelings by the reflection that I was the support and comfort of my poor old mother’s life, when my attention was roused by the evident compassion of a young lady, who, after passing me with a hesitating step, withdrew her arm from that of her more elderly companion, and pausing for an instant, put a shilling into my hand, saying, ’You look very weary, my poor man; pray get something to drink with that.’  A more lovely countenance (if by lovely be meant that which engages love) was never moulded by nature; the sweetness and compassion of her pale face and soft innocent eyes; the kindness of her gentle voice, made an impression on my memory too strong to be effaced. I saw her once again! I reached the merchant’s lodgings and my knock was answered as on the former occasion, by the widow herself.  She sighed heavily as she saw me, and after one or two attempts to speak, informed me that her son was awake, but that it was impossible for her to administer the opiate, as he refused to let the smallest nourishment pass his lips; but that he was quite quiet, indeed had never spoken since he woke, except to ask her how she felt; and she thought I might proceed without fear of his interruption.  I entered accordingly, followed by a lad, son to the landlady who kept the lodgings, and with his assistance I proceeded to lift the corpse, and lay it in the coffin.  The widow’s son remained motionless, and, as it were, stupified during this operation:  but the moment he saw me prepare the lid of the coffin