"Oh, ungrateful girl, will you see me die? For, Gipsy, if I am deprived now, in my illness, of the comforts to which I have always been accustomed, I shall die."
"Oh, no, you won't, aunty. I don't think that things are as bad as Guardy makes them appear; and, even if they were, Dr. Wiseman, old wretch as he is, would let you remain."
"No, he would not, child; you don't know the revengeful disposition of that man. Oh, Gipsy, by the memory of all we have done for you, I beseech you to consent!"
"Aunty, aunty, I cannot; it is too dreadful even to think about. Oh, aunty, I cannot tell you how I loathe, abhor, and detest that hideous old sinner!"
"Gipsy, that is wrong—that is sinful. Dr. Wiseman is a highly respectable gentleman—rather old for you, it is true—but of what difference is a few years? He is rich, and loves you well enough to gratify your every wish. What more would you have?"
"Happiness, aunty. I should be utterly miserable with him."
"Nonsense, child, you only think so. It is not as if you were older, and loved somebody else. People often marry those they don't care about, and grow quite fond of them after a time. Now, I shouldn't be surprised if you grew quite fond of Dr. Wiseman by and by."
Gipsy laughed her own merry laugh again as she heard Lizzie's words.
"Oh, Gipsy, you thoughtless creature! is this your answer to my petition?" said Lizzie, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. "Leave me, then. I will not long survive your ingratitude; but, mark me, your name will become a by-word, far and near, and descend to posterity branded with the disgrace of your ungrateful conduct. Go—leave me! Why should you stay to witness the misery you have caused?"
Poor Gipsy! how these reproaches stung her. She started to her feet, and began pacing the floor rapidly, crying wildly: