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You wou Wrather see me suffer and die, than bend youi stubborn pride in the effort to obtain relief for me, You will not try to save me. The thin, hysterically unsteady voice ended in a sob, and the frail wasted form of the speaker leaned for ward, as if the issue of life or death hung upon an answer. The tower clock of a neighboring church began to strike the hour of noon, and not until the echo of the last stroke had died away, was there a reply to the appeal. Mother, try to be just to me. My pride is for you, not for myself. I shrink from seeing my mother crawl to the feet of a man, who has disowned and spurned her; I cannot consent that she should humbly beg for rights, so unnaturally withheld. Every instinct of my nature revolts from the step you require of me, and I feel as if you held a hot iron in your hand, waiting to brand me. Your proud sensitiveness runs in a strange groove, and it seems you would prefer to see me a pauper in a Hospital, rather than go to your grandfather and ask for help.
(Typographical errors above are due to OCR software and don’t occur in the book.)
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Forgotten Books is a publisher of historical writings, such as: Philosophy, Classics, Science, Religion, History, Folklore and Mythology.
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