"Still say on, dear papa," she whispered tremulously.
"Can you bear it?" he asked; "not for me, but for another—an enemy."
"Yes, the Lord will give me strength. Of whom do you speak?"
"George Boyd."
"The would-be murderer of my husband!" she exclaimed, with a start and shiver, while the tears coursed freely down her cheeks. "I thought him long since dead."
"No, I met him this evening, but so worn and altered by disease and famine, so seamed and scarred by Aunt Dicey's scalding shower, that I recognized him only by the mutilated right hand. Elsie, the man is reduced to the lowest depths of poverty and shame, and evidently very near his end."
"Papa, what would you have me do?" she asked in quivering tones.
"Could you bear to have him removed to Viamede? could you endure his presence there for the few weeks he has yet to live?"
She seemed to have a short struggle with herself, then the answer came in low, agitated tones.
"Yes, if neither my children nor I need look upon him or hold any communication with him."