No, no; he is not gone, but he will soon go, and what a catalogue of crimes will follow after him! The man's conscience is a gaol where every thought and wish of his guilty life and godless heart is a felon; and the blackest calendar that ever was spread before God was his.

Oh! I wonder do the chains in his conscience rattle?
they do, but his ears are deaf, and he doesn't hear them; but he will, and feel them too, yet." Phil, who had got alarmed at the extraordinary energy of her manner, as well as of her language, said, "what do you want, and who are you speaking of ?" "Who am I speaking of?
who should I be speaking of but of old Deaker, the blasphemer ?--and who am I speaking to but the son of the ungodly villain who threatened to horsewhip the mother that bore him.

Do you know me now ?" "Let go my bridle," exclaimed Phil, "let go my bridle, you old faggot, or upon my honor and soul I'll give you a cut of my whip." "No," she replied, no whit daunted, "no, I'm near my eightieth year.

I'm old, and wrinkled, and gray--my memory forgets everything now but my own crimes, and the crimes of those that are still worse than myself--old I am, and wicked, and unrepenting--but I shall yet live to pour the curses that rise out of an ill-spent life into his dying oar, until his very soul will feel the scorches of perdition before its everlasting tortures come upon it in hell.

I am old," she proceeded, "but I will yet live to see the son that cursed his mother, and threatened to raise his sacrilegious hand against her that bore him, laid down like a tree, rooted up and lopped--lying like a rotten log, without sap, without strength, and only fit to be cut up and cast into the fire.