A sad and painful conflict, precipitated by the remark of his
daughter, was going on in the mind of this wretched man. He knew
also too well that he was standing on the verge of a dreadful
condition from the terrors of which his soul shrunk back in
shuddering fear. All day he had felt the coming signs, and the hope
of escape had now left him. But love for his daughter was rising
above all personal fear and dread. He knew that at any moment the
fiend of delirium might spring upon him, and then this tender child
would be left alone with him in his awful conflict. The bare
possibility of such a thing made him shudder, and all his thought
was now directed toward the means of saving her from being a witness
of the appalling scene.
The shock and anger produced by the mention of Mrs. Birtwell's name
had passed off, and his thought was going out toward her in a vague,
groping way, and in a sort of blind faith that through her help in
his great extremity might come. It was all folly, he knew. What
could she do for a poor wretch in his extremity? He tried to turn
his thought from her, but ever as he turned it away it swung back
and rested in-this blind faith.
Raising his eyes at last, his mind still in a maze of doubt, he saw
just before him an the table a small grinning head. It was only by a
strong effort that he could keep from crying out in fear and
starting back from the table.
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