ufferings.
Imagine the weight of sorrow that crushed me to my knees with such a
petition as that. I know all you have done, and yet I ask you now, in
remembrance of the boyish love that bound you and my father together,
to lessen her bodily anguish by the sacrifice of a little more;
that she, nursed in the lap of luxury, may not pass from life with
starvation as her companion. My brother's gift is expended; and during
the last three weeks I have earned but twelve shillings; my pupils
are out of town. Do, for a moment remember what I was, and think how
humbled I must be to frame this supplication; but it is a child that
petitions for a parent, and I know I have never forfeited your esteem.
In a few weeks, perhaps in a few days, my brother and my mother will
meet my poor father face to face. Oh! that I could be assured that
reproach and bitterness for the past do not pass the portals of the
grave. Forgive me this, as you have already forgiven me much. Alas! I
know too well that our misfortunes drew misfortunes upon others. I was
the unhappy but innocent cause of much sorrow at the Grange; but, oh!
do not refuse the _last_ request that I will ever make." The letter
was blotted by tears.

Charles Adams was from home when it arrived, and his wife, knowing the
handwriting, and having made a resolution never to open a letter "from
that branch of the family," did not send it after her husband "lest it
might tease him." Ten days elapsed before he received it; and when he
did, he could not be content with writing, but lost not a moment in
hastening to the address. Irritated and disappointed that what he
really had done should have been so little appreciated, when every
hour of his life he was smarting in one way or other from his
exertions--broken-hearted at his daughter's blighted health and
happiness--angered by the reckless wildness of one nephew, and what
he believed was the idleness of another--and convinced that Rosa's
fearful step was owing to the pampering and mismanagement of her
foolish mother--Charles Adams satisfied himself that, as he did not
hear to the contrary from Mary, all things were going on well, or at
least not ill. He thought as little about them as he possibly could,
no people in the world being so conveniently forgotten (when they are
not importunate) as poor relations; but the letter of his favourite
niece spoke strongly to his heart, and in two hours after his return
home he set forth for the London su