[Illustration:  “It was my sister.”]

The pale face of my mother haunted me.  I flung myself on my bed and fell asleep.  Just at twilight I heard a footstep approach my door.  It was my sister.

“What shall I tell mother for you?” she said.

“Nothing,” I replied.

“O, Alfred, for my sake and for all our sakes, say that you are sorry.  She longs to forgive you.”

I would not answer.  I heard her footsteps slowly retreating, and flung myself on the bed to pass a wretched night.

Another footstep, slower and more feeble than my sister’s, disturbed me.  “Alfred, my son, shall I come in?” she asked.

I cannot tell what influence made me speak adverse to my feelings.  The gentle voice of my mother, that thrilled me, melted the ice from my heart, and I longed to throw myself upon her neck; but I did not.  My words gave the lie to my heart when I said I was not sorry.  I heard her withdraw.  I heard her groan.  I longed to call her back, but I did not.

I was awakened from an uneasy slumber by hearing my name called loudly, and my sister stood by my bedside:—­

“Get up, Alfred!  Don’t wait a minute.  Get up and come with me, mother is dying!”

I thought I was yet dreaming, but I got up mechanically, and followed my sister.  On the bed, pale as marble, lay my mother.  She was not yet undressed.  She had thrown herself upon the bed to rest, and rising again to go to me she was seized with heart failure, and borne to her room.

I cannot tell you my agony as I looked upon her,—­my remorse was tenfold more bitter from the thought that she never would know it.  I believed myself to be her murderer.  I fell on the bed beside her; I could not weep.  My heart burned within me; my brain was on fire.  My sister threw her arms around me and wept in silence.  Suddenly we saw a motion of mother’s hand; her eyes unclosed.  She had recovered her consciousness, but not her speech.

“Mother, mother!” I shrieked; “say only that you forgive me.”

She could not speak, but her hand pressed mine.  She looked upon me, and lifting her thin, white hands, she clasped my own within them, and cast her eyes upward.  She moved her lips in prayer, and thus died.  I remained kneeling beside that dear form till my sister removed me; but the joy of youth had left me forever.

Boys who spurn a mother’s counsel, who are ashamed to own that they are wrong, who think it manly to resist her authority, or yield to her influence, beware.  One act of disobedience may cause a blot that a life-time can not wipe out.  Wrong words and wrong actions make wounds that leave their scars.

Be warned; subdue the first rising of temper, and give not utterance to the bitter thought.  Shun the fearful effects of disobedience.  Lay not up for yourselves sad memories for future years.

[Illustration:  The Shipwreck]