“‘Nature! did you not last night administer the——’
“‘No,’ interrupted Lucretia. ‘No; she came into the room; she kissed me here, on the brow that even then was meditating murder. The kiss burned; it burns still;—it eats, into the brain like remorse. But I did not yield; I read again her false father’s protestation of love; I read again the letter announcing the discovery of my son, and remorse lay still; I went forth as before; I stole into her chamber; I had the fatal crystal in my hand——’
“‘Well! well!’
“‘And suddenly there came the fearful howl of a dog: and the dog’s fierce eyes glared on me; I paused, I trembled; Helen started, woke, called aloud; I turned and fled. The poison was not given.’”
And afterwards she said,—
“‘That kiss still burns; I will stir in this no more.’”
When it comes to the “last scene of all that ends this strange eventful history,” few can equal in power and pathos the popular writer, Samuel Warren, as witness one or two passages in the “Diary of a Physician.”
In “The Wife,” which is a record of incredible atrocities on the part of a brutal husband, and of patient endurance and endless forgiveness on the part of the wife, we come to the closing scene:
“‘Well, George, we must part!’ said she, closing her eyes and breathing softly, but fast. Her husband sobbed like a child, with his face buried in his handkerchief. ‘Do you forgive me?’ he murmured, half choked with emotion.