Thurston was frightfully changed, the sufferings of the last month
seemed to have made him old--his countenance was worn, his voice hollow,
and his manner abstracted and uncertain.
"Edith," he asked, as he took the chair near her head, "do you feel
stronger this morning?"
"Yes--I always do in the forenoon"
"Do you feel well enough to talk of Miriam and her future?"
"Oh, yes."
"What do you propose to do with her?"
"I shall leave her to Aunt Henrietta--she will never let the child
want."
"But Mrs. Waugh is quite an old lady now. Jacquelina is insane, the
commodore and Mrs. L'Oiseau scarcely competent to take care of
themselves--and Luckenough a sad, unpromising home for a little girl."
"I know it--oh! I know it; why do you speak of it, since I can do no
otherwise?"
"To point out how you may do otherwise, dear Edith. It would have been
cruel to mention it else."
She looked up at him with surprise and inquiry.
"Edith, you have known me from my boyhood. You know what I am. Will you
leave your orphan daughter to me? You look at me in wonder; but listen,
dear Edith, and then decide. Marian--dear martyred saint! loved that
child as her own. And I loved Marian--loved her as I had never dreamed
it possible for heart to love--I cannot speak of this! it deprives me of
reason," he said, suddenly covering his eyes with his hands, while a
spasm agitated his worn face.
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