Agnes now approached him, and familiarly, or rather, endearingly, embracing his arm, said, “Are you very ill, papa?—My mamma tied this bit of love-ribbon on the finger where married ladies wear their rings, that I shouldn't forget to tell you she forgave you with her last breath, and died happy!”
“May she be in heaven!” exclaimed Sir Waldron.
“Amen!” responded little Agnes.
“What to do—what to do, I know not,” said the baronet, rising from his chair again.
“Won't you own me, papa?—pray do; or I don't know what I shall do, after walking so far and all. I wore out my shoes and stockings—”
“Bless thy poor little feet—what a sight is this!”
“Won't you own me, papa?” repeated Agnes.
“I do—I do, child,” replied Sir Waldron, kissing her; “but I must send you away,—how, I cannot tell.—You must not be known to be mine:—my honour, my reputation;—the character I have maintained—s'death! it drives me mad!”
“Mayn't I live with you, then?” said Agnes.
“It is absolutely impossible.”