Tell him what she wanted!—tell him that she wanted him to love and receive her as a daughter—tell him that the love he bore his son was henceforth to be transferred to the unhappy being before him—how could she tell him this? how could she tell him what she wanted?
"Speak, girl, I say!" he cried, angrily.
"Read this," she faltered, "it will tell you all."
"I will not," he answered; "tell me, or begone!"
Falling on her knees before him, she held out the letter, crying: "I am Arthur's wife. He is dead, and this is his letter, and I am here according to his wish—to his dying injuction
. Take it—read it—it will tell you all."
"Good gracious, the girl is mad!" he exclaimed, "mad as a March hare. Come, come! get up and go about your business, or I shall have you put in the asylum."
Louisa felt choking, she could not speak; she could only stretch out her arms imploringly, still holding the letter.
"There is some great mistake; my son is not dead, nor is he married, so do not think to impose upon me."
"There is no mistake; Arthur is dead, and you see his widow before you," she managed to articulate.