In the new place I found refuge in I made friends with a kind family, who grew very fond of my child--as none indeed could help doing. Her bright ways, her innocence, her artlessness, would win any heart not dead to human affection. If anything should happen to me, these friends will take care of my darling as long as they are able. I think it is likely that I shall not live long, and I have thought anxiously over the future of my darling until she arrives at an age when she may be able to protect and provide for herself. I have consulted with my new friends, and I have arranged everything to the best of my ability and judgment. I shall place in their hands a small box, which, in the event of my death and of their being unable to maintain my child (for they are poor people), is to be given to her with plain instructions. These instructions it will be necessary for me here to explain, first saying, however, that should these good friends be able to look after my child until she arrives at womanhood, there will be no necessity to give them to her. In that event, also, the box and its contents will be burnt. They have promised me faithfully, and I know they will keep their word. If I am gone, and they are too poor to help my child, she will be, as I have been, without a friend. These good people have some idea of emigrating, if they can save sufficient money, and then my darling will be indeed helpless. They might take her with them, it may be said; but they may not have sufficient means. And then, again, it inflicts the most bitter pain upon me to think that my darling child should be taken thousands of miles from the spot where her mother's ashes are laid. She will be helpless, as I have said; but there is one upon whom she has a just claim--yourself. I wished her never to see you; I wished that you might never look upon her beautiful face, nor feel the charm of her presence. But I see no other way to secure a home for her. Should she be left without friends, she will come to you, a stranger, with a letter from me, who will even then be dead, asking you to give a home to a friendless child. She will bear a strange name, and will know you only as a stranger. Neither will you know her; it may be that you will see in her face some slight resemblance to the wife whose happiness you have destroyed, and it may be that you may place that resemblance to your dead wife's discredit. Do so, and bring another shame upon your soul. How do I know where you live in London? It has been discovered for me, by means of a clue which my father obtained soon after your flight. When a mother is working for her child, she can do much. I have never seen London, but I know your address; and on the day that the friends I have made for my child find they can no longer provide for her, she will present herself at your door. Hard and unfeeling, cruel and unjust, as you are, I think you will not turn her from it.