s--I would lie on the ground that she might walk over me, if the
better in that position I might plead for mercy."

"For mercy? Ay, that's all very well, but Charlotte must have her
rights. Sandy Wilson must see to that."

"She shall have her rights! And yet I would see her if I could, and if I
saw her I would go on my knees and plead for mercy."

"I don't understand you, Miss Harman."

"I do not suppose you do. Will you have patience with me while I explain
myself?"

"I have come here to talk to you and to listen to you," said Wilson.

"Sir, I must tell you of my father, that man whom you (and I do not
wonder) consider so bad--so low! When I read that will yesterday--when I
saw with my own eyes what a fraud had been committed, what a great,
great evil had been done, I felt in my first misery that I almost hated
my father! I said to myself, 'Let him be punished!' I would have helped
you then to bring him to punishment. I think you saw that?"

"I did, Miss Harman. I can see as far through a stone wall as most
people. I saw that you were a bit stunned, and I thought it but fair
that you should have time to calm down."

"You were kind to me. You acted as a good man and a gentleman. Then I
scarcely cared what happened to my father; now I do."

"Ay, ay, young lady, natural feelings must return. I am very sorry for
you."

"Mr. Wilson, I hope to make you yet more sorry. I must tell you more.
When I saw you yesterday I knew that my father was ill--I knew that he
was in appearance an old man, a broken down man, a very unhappy man; but
since I saw you yesterday I have learned that he is a dying man--that
old man against whom I hardened my heart so yesterday is going fast to
judgment. The knowledge of this was kept from me, for my father so loved
me, so guarded me all my life that he could not bear that even a pin's
point of sorrow should rest upon me. After seeing you yesterday, and
leaving you, I visited some poor people who, not knowing that the truth
was hidden from me, spoke of it as a well known fact. I went away from
them with my eyes opened. I only wondered they had been closed so long.
I went away, and this morning I did more. I visited one of the greatest
and cleverest doctors in London. This doctor my father, unknown to me,
had for some time consulted. I asked him for his candid opinion on my
father's case. He gave it to me. Nothing can save my father. My father
must die! But he told me more; he said that the