"That man was myself!" cried the surgeon emphatically.
"Oh! kill me—kill me!" exclaimed Ellen; and covering her face with her hands, she burst into an agony of tears and heart-wrung sobs.
"Yes," continued the surgeon, pacing the room, and glancing rapidly on all sides: "there is the chest of drawers against which I dashed my foot—here stood the bed—here the table—I sate down in this chair—Oh! now I remember all!"
And for some moments he walked up and down the room in profound silence.
Suddenly Ellen started up to a sitting posture in the bed, and exclaimed, "My child, sir? Tell me—have you taken care of my child?"
"Yes—Miss—Madam," replied Mr. Wentworth; "the little boy thrives well, although deprived of his natural nourishment."
"Thank you, sir—thank you at least for that assurance," said Ellen. "Oh! sir—you cannot understand how deeply a mother feels to be separated from her child!"
"Poor girl," said the surgeon, in a compassionate tone; "you have then suffered very much?"
"God alone knows what I have endured for months past, mentally and bodily!" cried Ellen, clasping her hands together. "And now you know all, sir—will you betray me? say, sir—will you betray me?"
Mr. Wentworth appeared to reflect deeply for some moments.