Yet you look not with dread, but rather with a firm trustfulness
toward the day of the end. For your darling Madge, it is true, you have
anxieties; you fear to leave her lonely in the world with no protector
save the wayward Frank.
* * * * *
It is later August when you call to Madge one day to bring you the
little _escritoire_, in which are your cherished papers; among them is
your last will and testament. Thornton has just left you, and it seems
to you that his repeated kindnesses are deserving of some substantial
mark of your regard.
"Maggie," you say, "Mr. Thornton has been very kind to me."
"Very kind, father."
"I mean to leave him here some little legacy, Maggie."
"I would not, father."
"But Madge, my daughter!"
"He is not looking for such return, father."
"But he has been very kind, Madge; I must show him some strong token of
my regard. What shall it be, Maggie?"
Madge hesitates,--Madge blushes,--Madge stoops to her father's ear as if
the very walls might catch the secret of her heart;--"Would you give
_me_ to him, father?"
"But--my dear Madge--has he asked this?"
"Eight months ago, papa.
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