Mr. Cornelius gathered up the papers which lay upon the table before him and put them into my hands. They were, first, a certificate of his marriage with Ann Chapman, in the city of New York, on the ninth day of October, eighteen hundred and —; second, articles of separation entered into, and signed in duplicate, by both parties, just one year thereafter—being done at New York on the ninth day of October, one thousand eight hundred and —; and last, several letters received by Mr. Cornelius from his wife’s relatives at wide intervals, and at periods long subsequent to their stipulated divorce. The articles contained an acknowledgment on the part of Mrs. Cornelius of her having received twenty thousand dollars from her husband in full satisfaction of all claims upon him for support, and of her right of dower in his estate; the letters were written in answer to inquiries made by himself as to his wife’s existence and condition in life, and all, without exception, expressed an utter inability to give him any information upon the subject. “In eighteen hundred and —,” said Mr. Cornelius, “I visited the North, and there met with and hastily married Ann Chapman, then a young woman of humble parentage—not otherwise than my own—with much beauty, a moderate education, and a spirit which was equal to any fortune. My business called me to England, and upon my return I saw, or fancied that I saw, some change in her feelings toward me. She was honest, as honest as the light in which God robes himself; but the great disparity of our ages made me jealous of her affection; and as she was of a strong temper, not easily controlled, while I was in some degree unreasonable and exacting, we soon quarreled, made each other miserable, and, by mutual consent, separated. When I took leave of her, she put her hand in mine, and with a calmness which was terrible, called down every suffering upon her head if, with her assent, I should see her face again. She would go and hide her sorrow among strangers, and even the fruit of our short-lived love, which she then carried in her bosom, should not know me until grief and many years had ripened me for the grave. I returned to New Orleans; I returned to my labor and my money getting—and she, alas! she kept her purpose too well! Through many a long month, and through many a long year, have I repented of that folly, to find only at this hour the blood which is my own. I have heaped up gold and houses and lands—sir, my wife and daughter would have made me a better man.” And he drew down his long silver locks over his face and covered it with his hands. “Are you satisfied as to the identity; have you no doubts, Mr. Cornelius?” He took a richly chased miniature from his bosom and bid me look at it. “It is the mother as she was at twenty; it is the daughter of to-day.” I started with surprise; it could not have been more like, had the young widow sat for it.