quote, like this. For from the moment Selina
comes to me, I shall livel
When will she come? It is twelve o''clock. The night, that was bitter, is growing
wild. Why do rough nights always grow wilder at midnight? She won''t hear the
worst of it, in her cell at Millbank. She might go into it unready, and be torn and
bruised and baffled—and I can do nothing for her, except wait. When will she
come?—she said, before daylight. When is the dawn? Six hours from now.
I shall take a dose of laudanum, and perhaps that will guide her to me.
I shall put my fingers to the collar at my throat and stroke the velvet—she
said the collar would make her come.
Now it is one o''clock.
Now it is two o''clock—another hour gone. How quickly it passes, on the
page! I have lived a year, to-night.
When will she come? It is half-past three—the time, they say, that people die,
though it wasn''t so when Pa died, it was plain day-light then. I have not been so
wakeful, so determinedly, since his last night. I have not wished so hard as I then
wished to keep him from going from me, as I have wished to-night for her to
come. Does he really gaze at me, as she believes? Does he see this pen move on
the page? Oh Father, if you see me now—if you see her searching for me
through the gloom—guide our two souls together! If you ever loved me, you may