The old man rose up, and paced the room, murmuring, in accents of acute misery—
“All gone, all gone, the long cherished hope of years—the one link which, through all my misery, has bound me to life. Everything has perished—my long, long sustained hopefulness is swept from me, and henceforth there is nothing left but misery and despair!”
“Father, dear father, do not give way to such gloomy fears,” cried Flora, tenderly caressing him.
“A cloud has long hung over our house; it is at its darkest now, but it will disperse and pass away.”
“Never! never!” cried the old man, hoarsely. “In that dread fire, all our expectations—all the possibilities of restoring them, are consumed; we might have been wealthy in the time to come, now we must be beggars for ever.”
“Your sorrows overpower your better reason, Mr. Wilton,” exclaimed Hal, pained to see the acute grief of the old man, and the sharp tears of anguish coursing down the cheeks of Flora, whom he seemed to love more deeply and fervently each time his eye traced the exquisite beauty of her features.
Old Wilton turned to him.
“You know not the extent of my loss, Mr. Vivian,” he said, almost sharply, “you cannot, therefore, measure the depth of my grief.” Then, addressing his daughter, he said—“Ah! my child, I am to blame that I did not confide to you the true value of that document which I charged you to guard with your life. Had I done so you would”——
“I have saved that packet,” cried Flora, eagerly interrupting him. “I returned for it at the last moment, and I should have died when I secured it, had not Mr. Vivian risked his life to follow me, and bear me through flame and smoke to a place of safety.”
She turned a soft glance upon Hal as she said this, which made his heart leap again.