And now, he bowed his head—humbly—and he covered his face with his hands, and the tears ran through his fingers.
"Thus," the lady went on, "I comforted her, as I could; and she died: with her last breath commending her father to the mercy of God.
"Her lover was dear—but not dearer than her father. She told me that history one day. How she had loved; how devotedly, how passionately. But that when her name was disgraced, she had resolved never to unite it with his. She had withdrawn herself; she had done it in a way such as she believed would displease him. 'I thought he would feel it less if he were angry,' she said. 'I often wished in my desolation I could feel angry.' She told me his name; and I promised to make inquiries. I had fortunately the opportunity. I had the pleasure to tell her, that he had made the greatest efforts to find her out, but in vain; that he had remained unmarried and constant to her memory: that what had happened had given a new turn to his character. Habits of dissipation, which had been gradually acquiring power over him, had been entirely broken through. He had accepted an office in a distant colony, where he was leading a most useful and meritorious life. Never shall I forget the glow of joy that illuminated her face when I told her so. She looked already as if she had entered into the higher and more glorious existence!
"'I shall not see him again,' said she; 'but you will write to him and tell him all. You will say that I died true and blest, because he was what he was; and that I bade him a fond adieu, until we should meet again in a better world. For, O! we shall meet again; I have a testimony within, which shall not deceive me!'
"She then reverted to her father.
"'He will come back,' she said; 'you will see that he will come back, and he will inquire what is become of me—why his child has forgotten him and is silent. It will be the silence and forgetfulness of the grave. Perhaps he will come back as he went; his heart yet unchanged: defying and despairing. Tell him not—be patient, with him, good kind friend, for my sake. There is good in him:—good he knows not of, himself; that nobody knows of, but his loving child, and the God who made him—weak and erring as he is. Tell him, he must no more be weak and erring; tell him there is forgiveness for all who will return at last, but that forgiveness supposes newness of life. Tell him—"
The sentence was unfinished by the lady, for he who listened fell prostrate on his face upon the floor.
They raised him up; but his heart seemed broken. He neither moved nor spoke. Life, however, was not extinct; for in this condition he remained many days.
They could not keep him where he was, for this benevolent institution was strictly devoted to women of the more refined orders. He was carried to a Hospital. There was nowhere else to carry him.
Seven days he lay without speaking; but not absolutely senseless. The spirit within him was at work. In his worst days he had never wanted energy. His heart was ever strong for good or for bad. What passed within him, in those seven days, was between his soul and the Highest. He came out of his death-trance an altered creature.