CHAPTER XLII.
DRUSILLA’S DESTINATION.
One human hand my own to take,
One human heart my own to raise,
One loving human voice to break
The silence of my days.
Saviour, if this wild prayer be wrong
And what I seek I may not find,
Oh, make more hard, and stern, and strong
The frame-work of my mind!—Owen Meredith.
Having finished reading all the letters and papers that had been submitted to her examination, in proof of the perfidy of her husband, Drusilla sat on, for a few moments, pale, still, and mute. She would not weep now—the fountain of her tears was dry at last. She could scarcely feel—her heart was stunned almost to insensibility.