"Your father," he began,--"do you not love him? Would you do aught for his
welfare?"
"Everything that a father could ask I would do," exclaimed Ellen, eagerly.
"Where is my father? and when shall I meet him?"
"It must depend upon yourself, whether you shall meet him in a few days or
never."
"Never!" repeated Ellen. "Is he ill? Is he in danger?"
"He is in danger," replied the man, "but not from illness. Your father is
a ruined man. Of all his friends, but one remains to him. That friend has
travelled far to prove if his daughter has a daughter's affection."
"And what is to be the proof?" asked Ellen, with more calmness than the
stranger had anticipated; for she possessed a large fund of plain sense,
which revolted against the mystery of these proceedings. Such a course,
too, seemed discordant with her father's character, whose strong mind and
almost cold heart were little likely to demand, or even to pardon, the
romance of affection.
"This letter will explain," was the reply to Ellen's question. "You will
see that it is in your father's hand; and that may gain your confidence,
though I am doubted."
She received the letter; and many of her suspicions of the stranger's
truth were vanquished by the apparent openness of his manner.
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