this letter to her beloved Cranstoun--

Dear Willy,--My father is so bad, that I have only time to tell you,
that if you do not hear from me soon again, don't be frightened. I
am better myself. Lest any accident should happen to your letters,
take care what you write. My sincere compliments. I am ever yours.

"My father is so bad." Who had made him so? Yet does she say she was
sorry for it? No; she knew her father was then dying by that powder
that he had sent her, yet could acquaint him she was herself better.
Under those circumstances could caution him to take care what he
wrote, lest his letters should be discovered! What can speak more
strongly their mutual guilt? This letter she sealed with no less than
five wafers. When Mr. Littleton came from church she privately gave it
to him, desiring it might be directed as usual, and put into the post.
Mr. Littleton was at that time too well apprised of this black
transaction to obey her commands. He opened the letter, took a copy of
it. Upon further recollection, carried the original to the father, who
bid him open and read it. He did so. What do you think, gentlemen, was
all the poor old man said upon this discovery? He only again dropped
these words, "Poor love-sick girl! What will not a woman do for the
man she loves?"

Upon the Monday morning, after having been kept for two days without
seeing her father, by the order of the physicians, her conscience, or
rather fear, began to trouble her; she told the maid she should go
distracted if she did not see her father, and sent a message to beg to
see him. Accordingly she was admitted. The conversation between them
was this--"Papa, how do you do?" "My dear, I am very ill." She
immediately fell upon her knees and said, "Dear sir, banish me where
you will; do with me what you please, so you do but pardon and forgive
me. And as to Mr. Cranstoun, I never will see, write, or speak to him
again." He answered, "I do forgive you, but you should, my dear, have
considered that I was your own father." Upon this the prisoner said,
"Sir, as to your illness I am innocent." Susan Gunnell, who was
present, interrupted her at this expression, and told her she was
astonished to hear her say she was innocent, when they had the poison
to produce against her that she had put into her father's water gruel,
and had preserved the paper she had thrown into the fire. The father,
whose love and tenderness for his daughter exceeded expression,