My mother would go next. No life of any value was safe
a day. Death did not wait for disease. It killed because it chose, and to
show its contempt of hearts.
"But just as I was preparing to go to Havre, they brought me a telegram.
I screamed at it, and put up my hands. I said 'No, no;' I would not read
it, to be told my mother was dead. I would have her a few minutes longer.
Cornelia read it, and said it was from her. I fell on it, and kissed it.
The blessed telegram told she was coming home. I was to go to London and
wait for her.
"I started. Cornelia paid my fees, and put my diploma in my box. _I_
cared for nothing now but my own flesh and blood--what was left of it--my
mother.
"I reached London, and telegraphed my address to my mother, and begged
her to come at once and ease my fears. I told her my funds were
exhausted; but, of course, that was not the thing I poured out my heart
about; so I dare say she hardly realized my deplorable
condition--listless and bereaved, alone in a great city, with no money.
"In her next letter she begged me to be patient. She had trouble with her
husband's executors; she would send me a draft as soon as she could; but
she would not leave, and let her child be robbed.
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