When they had finished their conversation, he said, “There is one matter—painful, too—upon which I ought to speak to you. I should have done so before, but I did not know it myself until yesterday.”
“Know what? Is there more trouble coming?” answered Olive, sighing bitterly. “But tell me all.”
“All, is very little. You know, my dear Miss Rothesay, that your father was speechless from the moment of his seizure. But my wife, who never quitted him—ah! I assure you she was a devoted nurse to him, was Mrs. Wyld.”
“I thank her deeply, as she knows.”
“My wife has just told me, that a few minutes before his death your poor father's consciousness returned; that he seemed struggling in vain to speak; at last she placed a pencil in his hand, and he wrote—one word only, in the act of writing which he died. Forgive me, my dear young lady for thus agitating you, but”——
“The paper—give me the paper!”
Mr. Wyld pulled out his pocket-book, and produced a torn and blotted scrap, whereon was written, in characters scarcely legible, the name “Harold.”
“Do you know any one who bears that name, Miss Rothesay?”
“No. Yes—one,” added she, suddenly remembering that the name of Sara's husband was Harold Gwynne. But between him and her father she knew of no single tie. It must be a mere chance coincidence.
“What is to be done?” cried Olive. “Shall I tell my mother?”