“Are you glad to see me?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not!” replied the disappointed parent, relaxing his hold, and darting a vindictive glance at me.
Arthur, thus released, crept back to me and put his hand in mine. His father swore I had made the child hate him, and abused and cursed me bitterly. The instant he began I sent our son out of the room; and when he paused to breathe, I calmly assured him that he was entirely mistaken; I had never once attempted to prejudice his child against him.
“I did indeed desire him to forget you,” I said, “and especially to forget the lessons you taught him; and for that cause, and to lessen the danger of discovery, I own I have generally discouraged his inclination to talk about you; but no one can blame me for that, I think.”
The invalid only replied by groaning aloud, and rolling his head on a pillow in a paroxysm of impatience.
“I am in hell, already!” cried he. “This cursed thirst is burning my heart to ashes! Will nobody—”
Before he could finish the sentence I had poured out a glass of some acidulated, cooling drink that was on the table, and brought it to him. He drank it greedily, but muttered, as I took away the glass,—“I suppose you’re heaping coals of fire on my head, you think?”
Not noticing this speech, I asked if there was anything else I could do for him.
“Yes; I’ll give you another opportunity of showing your Christian magnanimity,” sneered he: “set my pillow straight, and these confounded bed-clothes.” I did so. “There: now get me another glass of that slop.” I complied. “This is delightful, isn’t it?” said he with a malicious grin, as I held it to his lips; “you never hoped for such a glorious opportunity?”