His voice was so inaudible she could but just catch the sentence, "So he gives me over!"
"I don't think he would if he could see you now. Indeed, you seem better."
"I don't think I shall die; but, in case of accidents, will you write something for me?"
Cecil nodded, while holding rapid communion with herself. Ought she to let him exhaust his little strength in dictating probably an agitating letter?
"Will you wait till you are a little stronger?" she said doubtfully.
"If I ever am, it will not be necessary to write; if otherwise I cannot do it too soon."
Cecil, judging by her own feelings that opposition to any strong wish would be more injurious than even imprudent indulgence, glided from the room, and soon returned with writing materials.
She sat down by the bed, and casually felt the attenuated wrist as she did so. The sick man gazed gratefully at her, but waited some minutes for breath to commence. His first words made her almost bound from her chair, and, as he continued in low feeble tones, with long pauses between, Cecil was wrought into an agony of suspense and interest.
The communication was to be addressed to an uncle, and began abruptly:—
"I was married to Theodora Leigh at a register office at Liverpool in November, 1853, and I make it a dying request to you to acknowledge my widow, who will otherwise be destitute both of money and friends. Forgive, if you can, my deception, and the poor return made for all the benefits lavished on your, notwithstanding, grateful nephew,