'Well?' cried Stuart. 'Well,' said I, 'that honest squire, as you call him, may yet come out to be a marquis.' Stuart groaned, and put his head out at the window. We have reached London, and I take the opportunity to write while Stuart is procuring from Grundy, who now lies in prison, such a statement as cannot fail to make the Doctor release my poor father without hesitation. How shall I support this approaching interview? I shall sink, I shall die under it. Indeed I wish to die; and I feel an irresistible presentiment that my prayer will shortly be granted. All day long I have a horrid gloom hanging over me, besides a frequent wildness of ideas, and an unusual irritability. I have a chilliness, and yet a burning through my skin; and I am unwilling even to move. If I could lock myself up in a room, with heaps of romances, and shut out all the world, I sometimes fancy that I should be happy. But no, my friend; the grave will soon be my chamber, the worms my books; and if ever I write again, I shall write from the bed of death. I know it; I feel it. I shall be reconciled to my dear parent, acknowledge my follies, and die. Adieu. LETTER XLVI Agitated beyond measure, I found myself at the madhouse, without well knowing how I had got there; and Stuart, after a long altercation with the Doctor, supported me to the room where my father was confined. He had to push me gently before him, and as I stopped breathless inside the door, I saw by the dusky twilight a miserable object, shivering, and sitting on a bed. A few rags and a blanket were cast about it: the face was haggard, and the chin overgrown with a grisly beard. Yet, amidst all this disfigurement, I could not mistake my father. I ran, prostrated myself at his feet, and clasping his knees, exclaimed, 'Father, dear father!' He started, and gazed at me for a moment; then flung me from him, and threw himself with his face downward on the bed. I cast my body across his, and endeavoured, with both my hands, to turn round his head, that I might embrace him; but he resisted every effort. 'Father!' cried I, clasping his neck, 'will you break my heart? Will you drive me to distraction? Speak, father! Oh! one word, one little word, to save me from death!' Still he lay mute and immoveable. 'You are cold, father,' said I. 'You shiver. Shall I put something about you? shall I, father? Ah! I can be so kind and so tender when I love one; and I love you dearly--Heaven knows I do.' I stole my hand on one of his, and lay caressing his forehead, and murmuring words of fondness in his ear. But nothing could avail. He withdrew his hand by degrees, and buried his forehead deeper in the cloaths. And now half frantic, I began to wring my hands, and beat the pillow, and moan, and utter the most deplorable lamentations. At last I thought I saw him a little convulsed, as if with smothered tears.