THE PLOT THICKENS.
The money which Griselda had brought the day before had added some comfort to that bare room. A good fire was burning, and the bed on which the man lay was covered with blankets.
There was wine, too, and food; and thus, all unawares, the daughter had performed a daughter's duty, and had ministered to the comfort of the last sad hours of that wasted life.
But it were vain to try to tell how Griselda's whole nature shrank from this sudden revelation—how the impulse was strong to leave the room before consciousness returned to the dying man—so intensely did she dread the recognition which she knew must follow.
For Graves had risen from her knees; and, going to the table, had taken a small case, and a letter from it, saying:
"He showed me these last night; they tell their own tale."
Poor little Norah had resumed her place by the bedside, exhausted with her long watching. She had slipped down on the floor, and had fallen into a doze. When Graves touched the case, she sprang up:
"No; you must not. Father said I was to let no one touch it till she came. No——"
The movement, and the child's voice, roused the sick man. He opened his large eyes, and looked about him—at first with no expression in them; but presently those black, lack-lustre eyes became almost bright as he fastened them on Griselda, and said, in a collected manner:
"Yes; I am glad I have lived to see you. Look! there is the portrait of your mother, and a letter from her, in which is her wedding-ring. I would not bury it with her; I kept it for you—her child—her only child—my child. Let me hear you call me 'father!' I was so cruel—so base—she had to flee from me—my poor Phyllis!"