“O, I am glad you have come back to me. Do try to save me, doctor,” she said, with great effort. Sending the nurse from the room, I quickly pressed the young girl’s hand within my own, and said to her,—
“Do you really wish to live, Emily?”
“Yes, yes,” she murmured; “I am very young to die.”
“Then, my dear, tell me truly what has so terribly shocked your nervous system; tell me.” With a strength that startled me, she searched under the mattress side, and drew forth a small note, which she silently placed in my hand. It was discolored by time. I opened it; the date was above twelve years back. It ran thus:—
“When you receive this, Mira (Mrs. T.’s given name), my career will have ended. By my death you will inherit all. Let my unborn child have its just, legal claim. Your child, Emily, take to your home as though she were an adopted orphan. Let not her youth be blighted by the knowledge of her unblest birth. I forgive you. Adieu, forever. H. T.”
“O my God, the doomed child is illegitimate,” I said. I stooped down and kissed the sufferer’s forehead, and promised that I would be a father to her. “Come, cheer up,” I whispered, “for your mother’s sake. If she has sinned she has suffered much for your sake; forgive her.”
“I do forgive her,” she whispered, “but can I forget myself, unblessed as I am? But I must know the whole truth. O, where is the right heir of all this wealth? My memory returns now, indistinctly, to my earlier days. A cloud intervenes. I remember but a small cottage, in a deep wood, where mother often came to see me, and a tall woman took care of me. Then came a gay carriage, and took me to a large house; but I never again returned to the cottage in the wood. There, at the large house, mother left me a long time; and when she came back—O, doctor, I can speak no longer. Do give me something to strengthen me, and I will try yet to live.”
A cordial was administered by my own hands, and in a short time sleep overcame her. Night again closed in; the wind had sunk to rest with the setting sun. Another night of bitter cold was ushered in. Woe to the poor! Woe to the hungry and the fireless.
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As I entered the mother’s apartments I found her sitting by a private secretary, which had been brought from the library. Its lid was open, and as I seated myself she took from a package of tied letters a sealed paper, and placing it in my hands, said,—