Richard could read no farther, but dropping the letter upon the bed, he buried his face in his hands and moaned:
“Darling Anna, your prayer will never be answered, but I thank you for it all the same, and I am so glad that I never forsook nor quite lost faith in you. O Anna! O Dora! Dora!”
The last name was wrung from him inadvertently, but Robert caught it up and said:
“Was the Dora who was with you at Robin’s grave the same of whom Anna speaks?”
“I think so,—yes, I am sure, for she once told me of a visit made to the asylum, and related an incident similar to this which Anna mentions.”
“Then Dick,” and Robert spoke reverently but decidedly, “then she will be yours. Anna prayed for it once, and I have implicit faith in Anna’s prayers. They followed me over land and sea, bringing me at last to the fountain of all peace.”
Richard made no reply to this, but asked reproachfully why his brother did not hasten home after receiving that touching message from Anna.
“The letter was a long time coming,” Robert said. “And as I was not expecting it, I never inquired at the post-office until I saw it advertised. It was then the first of September, and Anna was already dead, but this I did not know, and I was making up my mind to brave even a prison for her sake, when I saw that paper which told me of her death. The rest you know, except, indeed, the debt of gratitude I owe to you and mother for all your kindness to my wife and boy, and for the love with which you have ever cherished me. If I get well, I trust my life will show that a wretch like me can reform. I have money enough to pay the debt with interest, and, Richard, it is all yours, earned for you, and hoarded as carefully as miser ever hoarded his gains. But now tell me of Anna at the last. Did no one suspect she was my wife?”
“No one but myself, and I did not till she was dying,” Richard replied. “No one dreamed of questioning her of you, and so she was spared that pain.”
And then he told Robert the sad story which our readers already know, the story of Anna’s death, of Robin’s birth, and his short life, while Robert, listening to it, atoned for all the wrong by the anguish he endured and the tears he shed, as the narrative proceeded. At last, when it was finished, he sank back upon his pillow, wholly exhausted with excitement and fatigue.