“But my father, dear?”
“Quick! write!” he said with the feverish energy which frightened her; and dragging open the blotter on a side table, he pointed to a chair.
“He is mad—he is mad,” she wailed to herself, as in obedience to a will far stronger at that moment than her own, she sat down and took up pen and paper.
“Write,” he said hoarsely.
“Write, Harry?”
“Yes, quick!”
In a horror of dread as she read her brother’s wild looks, and took in his feverish semi-delirium, lest he should carry out a threat which chilled her, she dipped her pen and waited as, after an evident struggle with a clouding intellect, Harry said quickly:
“Dear father, I am forced by circumstances to leave home. Do not grieve for me, I am well and happy; and no matter what you hear do not attempt to follow me. If you do you will bring sorrow upon yourself, and ruin upon one I love. Good-bye; some day all will be cleared up. Till then, your loving daughter, Louise.”
“Harry!” she sobbed, as he laid down the pen, and gazed at the tear-blurred paper. “You cannot mean this. I dare not—I could not go.”
“Very well,” he said coldly. “I told you it was too late. It does not matter now.”