"No, dear; no air will be so good for me as this pure, bracing mountain atmosphere," her father replied, gently. "I would shrink from going to any place where we should be likely to find familiar faces—nothing would break me down so quickly. Be patient, Virgie for a little longer, and then you shall go back to the world, where you ought long ago to have been with people of your own age."
"Oh, papa! I care nothing for the world nor for society without you," she sobbed, realizing more fully than she ever had done, that she would soon be fatherless.
"But it is not right that you should spend your life in such a place as this," responded Mr. Abbot. "I have written to Mr. Bancroft, and if anything happens to me suddenly you will find the letter in my desk, and must send it to him immediately. I would mail it now, only—I cannot feel reconciled to having any one learn of our hiding-place while I live. One thing more I must speak of. I should have done so the other night if we had not been interrupted. When I am gone I want you to lay my body here, under the shadow of the old pine tree."
"Papa, papa! you will break my heart! Surely you would wish to lie beside my mother!" Virgie cried, the tears raining over her cheeks.
Mr. Abbot's face was almost convulsed with pain for a moment.
"Yes, if that were possible," he said, at length, "but no one must ever know the fate of Abbot Al—Ha! Virgie, I had nearly uttered the dishonored name!" he panted.
"Papa, you shall not talk so," the girl cried, wiping her tears and turning on him almost indignantly.
"I would not pain you, my darling," he answered, gently; "but if there were no cloud hanging over us, I should be only too glad to go back to our old home to die and be laid beside my loved ones. It cannot be, however," he concluded, sighing wearily.
"But, dear papa, the dreadful past was caused by no fault of your own, and it is not right that you should suffer as if it had been," Virgie said, passionately.
A cynical smile curled the lips of the sick man.