"My mother never did what you say.

She's now in her grave, an' can't speak for or defend herself; but if I were to stand here till judgment day, I'd say it was false.

You were misled or mistaken, or your own bad, suspicious nature made you do her wrong; an' even if it was thrue--which it is not, but false as hell--why would you crash and wring her daughter's heart by a knowledge of it?
Couldn't you let me get through the short but bitther passage of life that's before me, without addin' this to the other thoughts that's distractin' me ?" "I did it, as I said," he replied, "to make you harden your heart, an' to prevent you from puttin' any trust in the world, or expectin' anything either of thruth or goodness from it." She started, as if some new light had broken in upon her, and turning to him, said-- "Maybe I undherstand you, father--I hope I do.

Oh, could it be that you wor wanst--a--a--a betther man--a man that had a heart for fellow-creatures, and cared for them?
I'm lookin' into my own heart now, and I don't doubt but I might be brought to the same state yet.

Ha, that's terrible to think of; but again, I can't believe it.