Since his last attack, Mr. Wilkins's
mind had been much affected; he often talked strangely and wildly; but he
had rare intervals of quietness and full possession of his senses. At
one of these times he must have written a half-finished pencil note,
which his nurse found under his pillow after his death, and brought to
Ellinor. Through her tear-blinded eyes she read the weak, faltering
words:
"I am very ill. I sometimes think I shall never get better, so I wish
to ask your pardon for what I said the night before I was taken ill. I
am afraid my anger made mischief between you and Ellinor, but I think
you will forgive a dying man. If you will come back and let all be as
it used to be, I will make any apology you may require. If I go, she
will be so very friendless; and I have looked to you to care for her
ever since you first--" Then came some illegible and incoherent
writing, ending with, "From my deathbed I adjure you to stand her
friend; I will beg pardon on my knees for anything--"
And there strength had failed; the paper and pencil had been laid aside
to be resumed at some time when the brain was clearer, the hand stronger.
Ellinor kissed the letter, reverently folded it up, and laid it among her
sacred treasures, by her mother's half-finished sewing, and a little curl
of her baby sister's golden hair.
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