"Oh! can it be! he will not stoop so low! And he will die! he declares his solemn determination not to resist the attack. His life is thrown away!"
"Not if man can prevent it—I promise you this much. When did you get this letter?"
"Not an hour since."
"Why did you not send to Charley or me?"
"Mr. Read is away, and John sick."
"What is the tone of the note? revengeful?"
"Oh, no! he says expressly—'If I know my own heart, I wish him no evil.' He writes, weary of life, and relieved at the thought of getting rid of it."
"'Getting rid' of the life God has bestowed!" repeated he, indignantly. "Forgive me, Ida! yet you cannot tolerate this sentiment! Does he believe in an hereafter? Does he allude to it?"
"No—but he does believe—I have thought, sometimes, with more than the intellect. Do not judge him hardly;—he has suffered much of late; more from morbid sensibility than actual troubles, but he imagined his woes too heavy to be borne. He is not fit to cope with sorrow."
"None of us are, 'till we have been taught the uses of affliction. This recklessness is, you think, more an impulse than a purpose?"