ing his amiable
wife to the present place. And now,' said Cousin Feenix, with a real
and genuine earnestness shining through the levity of his manner and his
slipshod speech, 'I do conjure my relative, not to stop half way, but to
set right, as far as she can, whatever she has done wrong--not for
the honour of her family, not for her own fame, not for any of those
considerations which unfortunate circumstances have induced her to
regard as hollow, and in point of fact, as approaching to humbug--but
because it is wrong, and not right.'

Cousin Feenix's legs consented to take him away after this; and leaving
them alone together, he shut the door.

Edith remained silent for some minutes, with Florence sitting close
beside her. Then she took from her bosom a sealed paper.

'I debated with myself a long time,' she said in a low voice, 'whether
to write this at all, in case of dying suddenly or by accident, and
feeling the want of it upon me. I have deliberated, ever since, when and
how to destroy it. Take it, Florence. The truth is written in it.'

'Is it for Papa?' asked Florence.

'It is for whom you will,' she answered. 'It is given to you, and is
obtained by you. He never could have had it otherwise.'

Again they sat silent, in the deepening darkness.

'Mama,' said Florence, 'he has lost his fortune; he has been at the
point of death; he may not recover, even now. Is there any word that I
shall say to him from you?'

'Did you tell me,' asked Edith, 'that you were very dear to him?'

'Yes!' said Florence, in a thrilling voice.

'Tell him I am sorry that we ever met.

'No more?' said Florence after a pause.

'Tell him, if he asks, that I do not repent of what I have done--not
yet--for if it were to do again to-morrow, I should do it. But if he is
a changed man---'

She stopped. There was something in the silent touch of Florence's hand
that stopped her.

'But that being a changed man, he knows, now, it would never be. Tell
him I wish it never had been.'

'May I say,' said Florence, 'that you grieved to hear of the afflictions
he has suffered?'

'Not,' she replied, 'if they have taught him that his daughter is very
dear to him. He will not grieve for them himself, one day, if they have
brought that lesson, Florence.'

'You wish well to him, and would have him happy. I am sure you would!'
said Florence. 'Oh! let me be able, if I have the occasion at some
future time, to say so?'

Edith sat with her da