"There is no mistake. I wish there was—oh! I wish there was!"
Griselda seemed to be gathering strength now, for she left Graves's arm, and followed Brian up the long narrow flight of stairs. The child Norah had heard the sound of coming feet on the creaking staircase, and opened the door of the attic, saying:
"He is quieter now." Then, with a sob: "Oh! Brian, Brian! you have been such a long, long time; and have you brought her—the lady—the young lady?"
"Yes, I am here," Griselda said; "yes. How is your——"
The word died away on her lips—that word that ought to bring with it nothing but tender feeling of respect and love—that word which we use when we speak of the highest and the best guardian for life and death—"Father!"
Yes, that wild haggard man, who had sunk back in a lethargy after long incoherent ravings, was the father of the beautiful woman who, unfastening her cloak, let it fall from her on the floor of that wretched room; and, kneeling, clasped her hands, and cried, in the bitterness of her soul:
"Oh, that it was not true! Can it be true? Graves—Graves, tell me it is a frightful dream, and not reality!"
"My poor dear!" said Graves, in a choked voice, kneeling by Griselda's side, and putting her strong arm round her to support her. "My poor dear! I wish I could tell you it was a dream; but bear up, and put your trust in the Lord. It may be that He may save yonder poor creature as He saved the thief, in the hour of death."