“I could not help loving him, dear,” she said, smiling; “he is so good and true. It was not the same love I have for you. Richard, you’ll be rich again some day. You’ll be kind to her?”
“Rich or poor, on my soul I will!” he exclaimed.
“She has worked so hard for me,” said Netta, feebly. Then starting with a wildly anxious look upon her face, she uttered a strange, passionate cry as of one in intense mental agony.
“My child—my poor child!” cried Mrs Lane, throwing herself on her knees by the couch.
“Why—why did I not think of it before?” cried Netta, wildly. “I ought to have thought—Oh, it will be too late.”
“What is it—what can I do?” cried Mrs Lane.
“Papa—papa—papa!” wailed the girl; “I must see papa.”
Mrs Lane sank in a heap with her head bowed down upon her knees.
“I—I must see papa,” wailed Netta again—“I did not think before—I have something to say—it only came just now. Oh, mother, you will fetch him before it is too late.”
Mrs Lane started up and gazed wildly at her guest.