Old Wilton stood speechless, staring upon her as if distraught while she spoke. As she concluded, he said, in a hoarse whisper—
“Where is it? where is it?”
She drew from beneath her mantle a small packet, and handed it to him. He clutched it with trembling fingers. He ran his eye eagerly over it, though it shook in his hands, so that to decipher a word of that which was written in endorsement upon it seemed impossible. His breath went and came in short convulsive sobs.
“It is the same!” he murmured; “it is the same! Saved!—saved! My Flo’, saved!” The last words sounded feebly, and he staggered as if he was about to fall.
Hal rushed forward and caught him in his arms. The emotion had been too much for him, and he had fallen into a swoon. Hal laid him tenderly on his bed, and unloosed his neckcloth, while Flora, procuring some water from a brown pitcher, which stood in a corner of the apartment, bathed his temples and his lips with it.
After some anxious moments, spent in the endeavour to restore him, he heaved a deep sigh, and opened his eyes.
They fell upon his daughter’s face close to his own. Her soft arm was his pillow, and her gentle hand wiped the clammy dew from his forehead.
“Are you better, dearest father?” she asked, in low tones.
“Better! better!” he ejaculated, “Well! happy! saved!”
He pressed her cheek to his, and they mingled their tears together.