“Prepare yourself for the most melancholy tidings,” said Lelland, in a sympathizing voice and manner. “You have no longer a wife—it is now ten months since her death.”
The wretched man buried his face in his hands.
“Dead—dead—dead! and without forgiving me—dead!” he exclaimed.
“With her latest breath she forgave and blessed you,” said Lelland, taking his hand kindly.
“But my children—where are they—are they dead, too!”
“Your children are here—here, in the city; you may see them in an hour if you will,” replied Lelland.
“Here! here in the city—here, with you!” cried Wingate, starting up, every feature distorted by passion; “with you, do you say! how came you near her death-bed—ha! did you dare—” seizing Lelland by the breast as he spoke. But shaking him off, Lelland placed his hand on his arm, saying,
“First listen to me, Mr. Wingate, and you will see how little provocation you have for such anger.”
He then briefly related his unexpected and providential meeting with Margaret and her children, and the painful scene which so soon followed it. He spoke of Mary and Margaret—of their loveliness, their sweet dispositions, and of the consolation and happiness Wingate might yet receive from their affection.
When he had done speaking, the unhappy man seized the hand of Lelland, and pressing it fervently, said,