At
times her light would be almost obscured by a dark cloud passing over
her disc; at others, she would burst out in all her brightness. Philip
landed, and wrapping his cloak round him, hastened up to his cottage. As with a beating heart he approached, he perceived that the window of
the parlour was open, and that there was a female figure leaning
out. He knew that it could be no other than his Amine, and, after he
crossed the little bridge, he proceeded to the window, instead of
going to the door. Amine (for it was she who stood at the window) was
so absorbed in contemplation of the heavens above her, and so deep in
communion with her own thoughts, that she neither saw nor heard the
approach of her husband. Philip perceived her abstraction, and paused
when within four or five yards of her. He wished to gain the door
without being observed, as he was afraid of alarming her by his too
sudden appearance, for he remembered his promise, "that if dead he
would, if permitted, visit her as his father had visited his mother." But while he thus stood in suspense, Amine's eyes were turned upon
him: she beheld him, but a thick cloud now obscured the moon's disc,
and the dim light gave to his form, indistinctly seen, an unearthly
and shadowy appearance. She recognised her husband; but having no
reason to expect his return, she recognised him as an inhabitant of
the world of spirits. She started, parted the hair away from her
forehead with both hands, and again earnestly gazed on him. "It is I, Amine, do not be afraid," cried Philip, hastily. "I am not afraid," replied Amine, pressing her hand to her heart. "It
is over now: spirit of my dear husband--for such I think thou art, I
thank thee! Welcome, even in death, Philip, welcome!" and Amine waved
her hand mournfully, inviting Philip to enter, as she retired from the
window. "My God! she thinks me dead," thought Philip, and hardly knowing how
to act, he entered in at the window, and found her sitting on the
sofa. Philip would have spoken; but Amine, whose eyes were fixed upon
him as he entered, and who was fully convinced that he was but a
supernatural appearance, exclaimed--

"So soon--so soon! O God! thy will be done: but it is hard to bear. Philip, beloved Philip! I feel that I soon shall follow you." Philip was now more alarmed: he was fearful of any sudden reaction
when Amine should discover that he was still alive. "Amine, dear, hear me. I have appeared unexpectedly, and at an unusual
hour; but throw yourself into my arms, and you will find that your
Philip is not dead." "Not dead!" cried Amine, starting up. "No, no, still warm in flesh and blood, Amine--still your fond and
doting husband," replied Philip, catching her in his arms, and
pressing her to his heart. Amine sank from his embrace down upon the sofa, and fortunately was
relieved by a burst of tears, while Philip, kneeling by her, supported
her. "O God! O God! I thank thee," replied Amine, at last. "I thought it
was your spirit, Philip. O I was glad to see even that," continued
she, weeping on his shoulder. "Can you listen to me, dearest?" said Philip, after a silence of a few
moments. "O speak, speak, love; I can listen for ever." In a few words Philip then recounted what had taken place, and the
occasion of his unexpected return, and felt himself more than repaid
for all that he had suffered by the fond endearments of his still
agitated Amine. "And your father, Amine?" "He is well--we will talk of him to-morrow." "Yes," thought Philip, as he awoke next morning, and dwelt upon the
lovely features of his still slumbering wife: "yes, God is merciful. I feel that there is still happiness in store for me; nay more, that
that happiness also depends upon my due performance of my task, and
that I should be punished if I were to forget my solemn vow. Be it
so,--through danger and to death will I perform my duty, trusting to
his mercy for a reward both here below and in heaven above. Am I not
repaid for all that I have suffered? O yes, more than repaid," thought
Philip, as, with a kiss, he disturbed the slumber of his wife, and met
her full dark eyes fixed upon him, beaming with love and joy. Before Philip Went downstairs, he inquired about Mynheer Poots. "My father has indeed troubled me much," replied Amine. "I am obliged
to lock the parlour when I leave it, for more than once I have found
him attempting to force the locks of the buffets. His love of gold is
insatiable: he dreams of nothing else. He has caused me much pain,
insisting that I never should see you again, and that I should
surrender to him all your wealth. But he fears me, and he fears your
return much more." "Is he well in health?" "Not ill, but still evidently wasting away,--like a candle burnt down
to the socket, flitting and flaring alternately; at one time almost
imbecile, at others, talking and planning as if he were in the vigour
of his youth. O what a curse it must be--that love of money! I
believe--I'm shocked to say so, Philip,--that that poor old man,
now on the brink of a grave into which he can take nothing, would
sacrifice your life and mine to have possession of those guilders, the
whole of which I would barter for one kiss from thee." "Indeed, Amine, has he then attempted anything in my absence?" "I dare not speak my thoughts, Philip, nor will I venture
upon surmises, which it were difficult to prove. I watch him
carefully;--but talk no more about him. You will see him soon, and do
not expect a hearty welcome, or believe that, if given, it is sincere. I will not tell him of your return, as I wish to mark the effect." Amine then descended to prepare breakfast, and Philip walked out for
a few minutes. On his return, he found Mynheer Poots sitting at the
table with his daughter. "Merciful Allah! am I right?" cried the old man: "is it you, Mynheer
Vanderdecken?" "Even so," replied Philip, "I returned last night." "And you did not tell me, Amine." "I wished that you should be surprised," replied Amine. "I am surprised! When do you sail again, Mynheer Philip? very soon, I
suppose? perhaps to-morrow?" said Mynheer Poots. "Not for many months, I trust," replied Philip. "Not for many months!--that is a long while to be idle. You must make
money. Tell me, have you brought back plenty this time?" "No," replied Philip; "I have been wrecked, and very nearly lost my
life." "But you will go again?" "Yes, in good time I shall go again." "Very well, we will take care of your house and your guilders." "I shall perhaps save you the trouble of taking care of my guilders,"
replied Philip, to annoy the old man, "for I mean to take them with
me." "To take them with you! for what, pray?" replied Poots, in alarm. "To purchase goods where I go, and make more money." "But you may be wrecked again, and then the money will be all lost. No, no; go yourself, Mynheer Philip; but you must not take your
guilders." "Indeed I will," replied Philip; "when I leave this, I shall take all
my money with me."