“My own child, what dost thou say?” asked the father, bending anxiously over her.
“Good bye, Ysabel—” and she looked up in her father’s face and smiled.—That smile! it haunted him to his grave!
“Are you better, my own Ysabel? my dearest child?”
“Yes papa,—I am well. What a strange dream I have had. Ah! now I recollect—” and she sunk into a gentle sleep.
Day by day she gained health and strength. The father never left her side.
“Papa,” said she one day, “will you let me see that paper again? you know the one I mean.”
“No, my child, you never need see or think of it.”
“Do let me take it, papa—you do not know how well and strong I am—do, dearest papa?” And the father was prevailed upon. She saw she could save her father from ruin, and her mind was made.
“How old am I, papa?”
“Three weeks ago saw you seventeen.”