The Price He Paid — page 195: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

186 A SICK-BED CONFESSION. “You see it is too late. I cannot interfere now, if I would.” “T see,” said the old man, with trenchant bitter- ness. “There is blood now between you and us, so all discussion is at an end. I have not a word more to say.” CHAPTER XIV. A SICK-BED CONFESSION. If ever any one had cause to ruminate on the strange sport of destiny, that person surely was Councilor Moser; for wayward chance had played him as sorry a trigk as could well be imagined. He, the most faithful subject of a most gracious sov- ereign, the incarnation of loyalty, the sworn foe of every revolutionary and democratic tendency, had lived to see the son of a traitor to king and state lodged beneath his roof, admitted to the sanctuary of his home—while, bitterest reflection of all, to the imprudent and over-hasty conduct of his own daughter must he ascribe the calamity which had overtaken him. There was no denying the fact that Agnes Moser had alone been to ining for what had happened, though, no doubt, she had been actuated by the most pious motives. Agnes had always looked on the short space of time which she was to spend in her father’s house before entering on her chosen vocation, simply as an interval of preparation for the life that was to follow. ‘The law-writer’s sick wife was by no means the only person on whom she had bestowed her care and attention. Wherever comfort and consolation were needed, in the castle itself or its immediate neighborhood, there would be found this young girl, so rarely seen at other times, ready, in her quiet, self-sacrificing way, to relieve the suffering and afflicted; and what, in another case might have appeared singular and ex- cited conduct, was from her received as a matter of course. It seemed POTLECHY natural, therefore, that when the wounded men were brought up to the Eomichooks). co