Edith remained silent for some minutes, with Florence sitting close beside her. Then she took from her bosom a sealed paper.
“I debated with myself a long time,” she said in a low voice, “whether to write this at all, in case of dying suddenly or by accident, and feeling the want of it upon me. I have deliberated, ever since, when and how to destroy it. Take it, Florence. The truth is written in it.”
“Is it for Papa?” asked Florence.
“It is for whom you will,” she answered. “It is given to you, and is obtained by you. He never could have had it otherwise.”
Again they sat silent, in the deepening darkness.
“Mama,” said Florence, “he has lost his fortune; he has been at the point of death; he may not recover, even now. Is there any word that I shall say to him from you?”
“Did you tell me,” asked Edith, “that you were very dear to him?”
“Yes!” said Florence, in a thrilling voice.
“Tell him I am sorry that we ever met.”
“No more?” said Florence after a pause.