The kitchen, which we have described, was occupied by two persons.  One was a woman, apparently about forty years of age, but worn down by pain and suffering.  She had evidently once possessed much beauty:  there were still the regular outlines, the noble forehead, and the large dark eye; but there was a tenuity in her features, a wasted appearance, such as to render the flesh transparent; her brow, when she mused, would sink into deep wrinkles, premature though they were; and the occasional flashing of her eyes strongly impressed you with the idea of insanity.  There appeared to be some deep-seated, irremovable, hopeless cause of anguish, never for one moment permitted to be absent from her memory:  a chronic oppression, fixed and graven there, only to be removed by death.  She was dressed in the widow’s coif of the time; but although clean and neat, her garments were faded from long wear.  She was seated upon the small couch which we have mentioned, evidently brought down as a relief to her, in her declining state.

On the deal table in the centre of the room sat the other person, a stout, fair-headed, florid youth of nineteen or twenty years old.  His features were handsome and bold, and his frame powerful to excess; his eye denoted courage and determination, and as he carelessly swung his legs, and whistled an air in an emphatic manner, it was impossible not to form the idea that he was a daring, adventurous, and reckless character.

“Do not go to sea, Philip; oh, promise me that, my dear, dear child,” said the female, clasping her hands.

“And why not go to sea, mother?” replied Philip; “what’s the use of my staying here to starve?—­for, by Heaven! it’s little better.  I must do something for myself and for you.  And what else can I do?  My uncle Van Brennen has offered to take me with him, and will give me good wages.  Then I shall live happily on board, and my earnings will be sufficient for your support at home.”

“Philip—­Philip, hear me.  I shall die if you leave me.  Whom have I in the world but you?  O my child, as you love me, and I know you do love me, Philip, don’t leave me; but if you will, at all events do not go to sea.”

Philip gave no immediate reply; he whistled for a few seconds, while his mother wept.

“Is it,” said he at last, “because my father was drowned at sea, that you beg so hard, mother?”

“Oh, no—­no!” exclaimed the sobbing woman.  “Would to God—­”

“Would to God what, mother?”

“Nothing—­nothing.  Be merciful—­be merciful, O God!” replied the mother, sliding from her seat on the couch, and kneeling by the side of it, in which attitude she remained for some time in fervent prayer.

At last she resumed her seat, and her face wore an aspect of more composure.

Philip, who, during this, had remained silent and thoughtful, again addressed his mother.

“Look ye, mother.  You ask me to stay on shore with you, and starve,—­rather hard conditions:—­now hear what I have to say.  That room opposite has been shut up ever since I can remember—­why, you will never tell me; but once I heard you say, when we were without bread, and with no prospect of my uncle’s return—­you were then half frantic, mother, as you know you sometimes are—­”