But the old man was not easy, nevertheless; often thought of poor Maria; and could not clearly make out who had forged the letter.
Had it not been for that wicked brother John, a meeting--an explanation--a reconciliation--would undoubtedly have taken place: but he was shrewd enough to keep them asunder, and did not take much to heart his father's altered spirits and breaking state of health: his will and wealth were seemingly all the nearer.
And what of that poor stricken mother?
Wasted to a shadow, feverish and weak, she lay for weeks, counting the dreary hours, till she heard of dear, though unnatural, Maria.

Oh! the heartless caitiff, John! will he thus watch his mother die by inches, when one true word from his lips could restore her to tranquillity and health?
Yes, he would--he did--the wretch! She gradually pined--waned--wasted; the candle of her life burnt down into the hollow socket--glimmering awhile--flared and reeled, and then--one night, quietly and suddenly--went out! She entered on the world of spirits, where all secrets show revealed; and there she read, almost before she died--whilst yet the black curtain of eternity was gradually rising to receive her--the innocence of good Maria, and the deep-stained villany of John.

Her last words--uttered supernaturally from her quiescence, with the fervour of a visionary whose ken is more than mortal--were "Look, look, Thomas!--beware of John.

O poor, poor innocent outcast!--O rich, rich heart of love--Maria! my Mari--a--!".