“Is it Kate,—my daughter Kate?” cried the old man, in ecstasy.
“Yes, she was called Kate,” replied Mrs. Ricketts, whose strategic sight foresaw a world of consequences from the recognition. “What a lovely creature she was!”
“And you knew Kate?” cried Dalton again, gazing on the group with intense interest. “But was it my Kate? Perhaps it was n't mine!”
“She was living in the Mazzarini Palace with Lady Hester Onslow.”
“That's her,—that's her! Oh, tell me everything you know,—tell me all you can think of her. She was the light of my eyes for many a year! Is the old lady sick?” cried he, suddenly; for Mrs. Ricketts had leaned back in her chair, and covered her face with her handkerchief.
“She 's only overcome,” said Martha, as she threw back her own shawl and prepared for active service; while Scroope, in a burst of generous anxiety, seized the first decanter near him and filled out a bumper.
“She and yonr da-daughter were like sisters,” whispered Scroope to Dalton.
“The devil they were!” exclaimed Peter, who thought their looks must have belied the relationship. “Isn't she getting worse?—she's trembling all over her.”
Mrs. Ricketts's state now warranted the most acute sympathy; for she threw her eyes wildly about, and seemed like one gasping for life.
“Is she here, Martha? Is she near me——can I see her—can I touch her?” cried she, in accents almost heartrending.