I kept this secret from you. Often and often had I listened to the expression of your wishes--the dearest wish of your heart, you said--that our union might be blessed with children. Your wish was that our first child might be a girl, and I used to hang with delight upon your words--believing in them in my credulous faith--when you described how you would educate and rear her into a good woman. I kept the secret, intending to joyfully surprise you later on; but it was fated that you should never learn it from my lips. When my time drew near, I was among strangers. I prayed that I might be blessed with a boy, who would be able to fight against the world's cruelties--with a boy who might one day--if you lived--be able to tell you to your face that you had slandered his mother. I had those thoughts at that time, and I set them down so that you may know exactly the state of my mind towards you. I prayed most fervently that the child might not be a girl, whose fate it might be to be treated by a man as her unhappy mother was treated by you. But my prayers were not heard. The child I clasped to my breast--your child--was a girl. I hardly dared to look into her face at first, for I feared that it might resemble you, and that I should be compelled to hate her. I thanked God when I saw that there was but little resemblance to you. Think when you read this what my feelings towards you must have been. My darling's was the sweetest, most beautiful face that I had ever gazed upon. I had never conceived it possible that a human heart could throb with such ineffable delight as mine did even in the midst of my bitter sorrow and shame, when I looked into my darling's face and eyes. I offered up grateful prayers that I lived and was a mother, and I offered up prayers of thankfulness also that it was out of your power to rob me of my treasure. That you would have done it had you known, I entertained no doubt. The first few months of my child's life I was as happy as it was possible for a wronged and betrayed woman to be. Intending in these lines to hide nothing, I will not disguise from you that I shed many bitter tears because she was deprived of a father's love; but she did not lack love and attention. She was my one comfort and joy; I soon had no one else to love but her. My father died. The doctor who had attended him in his illness warned me that, unless I was careful of myself, my life might be short. The thought that my darling might be left, helpless and dependent, among strangers, frightened me, and I did not know which way to turn for counsel and advice. I had not a friend in the world capable of helping me by a kindly, sensible word. To this condition you had brought me.