"I have lived," he answered.
"How?"
"How! as others of my temper have lived. It was not my fault that I was born with an invincible passion for enjoyment. I did not make myself. If pleasure be but the forerunner of satiety—if life be but a cheat—if delight be but the precursor of misery—a delusion of flattering lies,—I did not arrange the system. Why was virtue made so hard, and self-indulgence so enticing? I did not contrive the scheme."
"Such excuses," the lady replied, "the honest consciousness within us rejects; such as your own inner conscience at the very moment you utter them disclaims. She who is gone—a broken-hearted victim of another's errors—hoped better things when she exhausted almost her last breath in prayers for you."
"Prayers!" in a tone that spoke volumes.
"Yes, prayers."
"What is become of my other daughter?—I want to go to her."
"She died, I believe, about twelve months ago."
"Then I am alone in the world?"
"You have no children now."