She took them out, and looked at each separately; looked at them long--long and wistfully.

"Will it be of any use to me ?" she questioned of herself, as she was about to put her father's letter back into its receptacle.

She read the last words over again, once more: "From my death-bed I adjure you to stand her friend; I will beg pardon on my knees for anything." "I will take it," thought she.

"I need not bring it out; most likely there will be no need for it, after what I shall have to say.

All is so altered, so changed between us, as utterly as if it never had been, that I think I shall have no shame in showing it him, for my own part of it.
While, if he sees poor papa's, dear, dear papa's suffering humility, it may make him think more gently of one who loved him once though they parted in wrath with each other, I'm afraid." So she took the letter with her when she drove to Hyde Park Gardens.
Every nerve in her body was in such a high state of tension that she could have screamed out at the cabman's boisterous knock at the door.