THE BETRAYED.
I was shown to her room. Sorrow, and not disease, had left its impress upon her fair young face. Rumor had already given me a hint on which to diagnose my case.
“Who has done this wicked thing?” I asked, holding her hand, and looking kindly into her eyes.
“O, my God! O, I must not tell,” she cried, springing up from her couch. I never shall forget the terror depicted on that fair young countenance, as she pronounced these words.
“You must tell. You should not suffer this shame and burden alone. Tell me truly. Who has done it? I must know. There may be a chance to cover the shame and make your babe legitimate. Come,” I said.
“O, sir, dear doctor, it can never be;” and she fell back on her pillow, weeping and wringing her hands in awful anguish.
“Come, it shall be done;” and I firmly held to the point.
She arose. I gave her a bowl and napkin that were near; she bathed her inflamed and swollen eyes, then, with surprising calmness and fortitude, took a pencil and a bit of paper from the light-stand at her bedside, and wrote a name.
She then handed it to me, saying “’Tis he.” I read the name. I jumped to my feet. I forgot my tender patient. I forgot all but my own sufferings, and those of my dear little wife and darling babe, and their enemy, as I cried out,—
“O, my God in Israel! I have got him! I shall be avenged!”