Corbet, were all there. She took them
out, and looked at each separately; looked at them long--long and
wistfully. "Will it be of any use to me?" she questioned of herself, as
she was about to put her father's letter back into its receptacle. She
read the last words over again, once more:
"From my death-bed I adjure you to stand her friend; I will beg pardon on
my knees for anything."
"I will take it," thought she. "I need not bring it out; most likely
there will be no need for it, after what I shall have to say. All is so
altered, so changed between us, as utterly as if it never had been, that
I think I shall have no shame in showing it him, for my own part of it.
While, if he sees poor papa's, dear, dear papa's suffering humility, it
may make him think more gently of one who loved him once though they
parted in wrath with each other, I'm afraid."
So she took the letter with her when she drove to Hyde Park Gardens.
Every nerve in her body was in such a high state of tension that she
could have screamed out at the cabman's boisterous knock at the door. She
got out hastily, before any one was ready or willing to answer such an
untimely summons; paid the man double what he ought to have had; and
stood there, sick, trembling, and humble.
CHAPTER XVI AND LAST.
"Is Judge Corbet at home? Can I see him?" she asked of the footman, who
at length answered the door.
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