indeed, to look at him one might say that it would be soon. There
were moments when Mr. Prendergast hardly thought that he would live
through that frightful day.

But all of which we have yet spoken hardly operated upon the
baronet's mind in creating that stupor of sorrow which now weighed
him to the earth. It was none of these things that utterly broke him
down and crushed him like a mangled reed. He had hardly mind left to
remember his children. It was for the wife of his bosom that he
sorrowed.

The wife of his bosom! He persisted in so calling her through the
whole interview, and, even in his weakness, obliged the strong man
before him so to name her also. She was his wife before God, and
should be his to the end. Ah! for how short a time was that! "Is she
to leave me?" he once said, turning to his friend, with his hands
clasped together, praying that some mercy might be shown to his
wretchedness. "Is she to leave me?" he repeated, and then sank on
his knees upon the floor.

And how was Mr. Prendergast to answer this question? How was he to
decide whether or no this man and woman might still live together as
husband and wife? Oh, my reader, think of it if you can, and put
yourself for a moment in the place of that old family friend! "Tell
me, tell me; is she to leave me?" repeated the poor victim of all
this misery.

The sternness and justice of the man at last gave way. "No," said
he, "that cannot, I should think, be necessary. They cannot demand
that." "But you won't desert me?" said Sir Thomas, when this crumb