Dilly. Oh, of course! “Dear, dear Harry”— (drops her pen, starts, and remains with her hands clasped, her eyes fixed upon the portfolio. Aside.) What do I see? am I dreaming?
Doctor. Yes, “Dear, dear Harry.” He is dear,—my own dear son. Who says he’s dead? It’s false: he stood by my bed last night. Who says he’s a forger? ’Tis false. He’s a good boy, a good boy—first in his class—the largest number of credits—no checks for Harry Harlem! Checks! they said he forged my name,—the name of his old father; and they took him, put him in prison, and hanged him by the neck till he was dead, dead, dead. A forger! ’tis false, false, false.
Lucy. Why, Dilly, what’s the matter?
Fred. (Approaching table.) Dilly, child, what ails you?
Dilly. (Starting up, and closing the portfolio.) Away, away!—you, of all men! I beg your pardon: I know not what ails me. (Takes portfolio, and comes down, L.) (Aside.) The proof, the proof at last! What shall I do? who trust? I dare not leave Fred Hastings here with Lucy: I fear his influence. Oh, if I could but make the doctor understand!
Doctor. Have you written, Dilly?
Dilly. Not yet, doctor (sits on stool at his side, L.) I want to talk with you first; I want to tell you a story.
Doctor. But I don’t want to hear a story; I want you to write to Harry.
Dilly. Listen to me a moment, doctor. You’ll like this story: it’s about a boy very much like Harry.
Doctor. Then he was a good boy, a good boy!