The young man bent his forehead to his hand, with a faint groan, while the clerk closed the huge register with a clang, and was about to move away. “It may be,” said De Marke, suddenly lifting his head, “it may be that she gave another name. Poor child! I had never given her leave to take mine. Look again. It may have been registered Catharine Lacy. I am sorry to trouble you, but do search once more. She was my wife, but might not have dared to use my name.” The clerk opened the huge book again, and commenced running down its pages with his finger, with a rapidity that exhibited some feeling for the unhappy man, who stood watching him with such intense anxiety. At last he paused, cast a quick glance at his visitor, and slowly wheeled the book toward him. The young man bent down, and saw the writing through a faint mist that turned to a burning haze as he read,— “_Catharine Lacy entered—died and buried with her child, April——_” The color left his face and lips. He threw his arms out as if to protect himself from falling, and sunk on a bench that stood by, without a word or a groan. Everything was dark around him. He had no wife—he was no longer a father. The secret of his marriage, so long buried in his heart, had perished in a single instant. Nothing was left but a remorseful memory, which must lie there, the dust of a dead love, forever and ever. He did not speak a word, but got up and staggered away, weak with the misery that had fallen upon him. On the third day from this, George de Marke stood once more in the miserable den which his stepmother inhabited. Sternly, and with steady repulsion of manner, he addressed the old woman: “Give me,” he said, “a portion of my father’s property, let it be ever so small, that I may leave this place forever.” “There is nothing for you, not a cent,” replied the old woman. “You have not reached the age when you can command a sous of my money. That was your father’s will. When you bring me a legal son, and are of proper age, it will be time for a settlement.” “But you wrote me, if I would take this unfortunate voyage to the Indies, that a portion of the wealth should be mine at once. For her sake I went. It was like giving up life, but I went resolutely, even though she did not reply to the letter which prepared her for my absence.” “She never got the letter, of course not. I did not believe all the stuff about a marriage, and I don’t now,” answered the old woman, insolently. “Your letter went to kindle my fire. Five good sheets of paper wasted. If it had only been for this extravagance, you ought to have been disinherited. But where is the girl? What has become of her baby? If you are married, bring out the creatures and the documents. If the child is a boy, you have only a few years to wait before there’ll be something to feed him on. Where is the wife and heir?” The young man arose, without a word, and in this stern silence left the room. It was many years before the two met again.