"Who was your father, madam?" said Mr. Faxon, with much sympathy in the tones of his voice.
"I dread even to mention the name I bore in the innocent days of childhood."
"Fie, Delia!" said Dalhousie, with a pleasant laugh, "what have you done to sink yourself so far in your own estimation? You and your father differed as to the propriety of our marriage; to you, as a true woman, your course was plain. This is the height and depth of your monstrous sin."
The conversation was here interrupted by the announcement that a gentleman waited to see Mr. Faxon.
The good clergyman had a habit of promptness in answering all calls upon him. This custom had been acquired by the reflection that a poor dying mortal might wait his blessing, ere he departed on his endless journey; that, sometimes, a moment's delay could never be atoned for; therefore he rose on the instant, and hastened to the parlor, where the visitor waited.
"Ah! is it possible—Captain Carroll!" said he, as he grasped Henry's hand; "I am glad to see you. But how pale and thin you look!"
"Good reason for it, my dear sir. I was on board of the Chalmetta."
"Were you, indeed! Thank God, you escaped with life! Were you much injured?"
"I was, but, thanks to the care of a good physician, I am nearly restored again."
"But our poor lady—Miss Dumont—have you any tidings of her? Report said she was lost in the catastrophe."