the utterance of an emotion so profound and so noble.
“Jane,—try and control yourself, my dear. Let’s talk it over, Jane.”
“I feel as if it would break my heart. I thought I had that one thing to comfort me. It’s like losing him again—losing his confidence. To think I should have disappointed him in just what he hoped more than anything!”
“But you’re mistaken,” Joseph exclaimed, a generous feeling for once getting the better of prudence. “Listen, my dear, and I’ll explain to you. I hadn’t finished when you interrupted me.”
She clasped her hands upon her lap and gazed at him in eager appeal.
“Did he say anything to you, father?”
“No,—and you may be quite sure that if he hadn’t trusted you, he would have said something. What’s more, on the very day before his death he wrote a letter to Mr. Percival, to say that he wanted to make his will again. He was going to do it on the Monday,—there now! It was only an accident; he hadn’t time to do what he wished.”
