“I had been married some months then. Do not be angry that I did not tell you.” “Angry, why should I? How dare I be angry with you for a concealment which—but I interrupt you; go on.” “I think you would have liked Louisa. She was the dearest and most lovable girl in the world.” “Was, Louis? You say _was_, as if your wife were dead.” “Dead, O brother! if this question could be answered! But it cannot. She is dead to me, I fear, and yet alive, she and her child.” “Be calm, brother, and explain all this. Whom did you marry? where is your wife?” “I can hardly answer either question. She was an orphan, and had an only brother older than herself. The name was Oakley. She was in school, but staying with a lady who lived in the next street to us; our gardens adjoined. I mean the year before our father died, when his family lived like civilized beings, for my mother had not then given herself up to avarice as a terrible passion. “This lady had a daughter somewhat older than her ward. I have since learned that she was also the aunt of Catharine Lacy. You remember Catharine?” George lifted one hand suddenly to his forehead. “Yes,” he answered, in a husky voice, “I remember her. She is dead.” “Yes,” answered Louis, thoughtfully. “Poor girl, she died in a strange way; it was a wonderful thing altogether. This proud woman was her aunt, who bound her out to Madame; Catharine never once mentioned the fact; perhaps Mrs. Judson forbade her. Some one has the murder of that girl upon his soul.” “Do not say that,” cried the young man, starting up distractedly. “She was my wife, Louis, my lawfully wedded wife; and they let her die in a charity hospital! It was our mother’s work, this foul murder. Louis De Marke, it was her work!” “And this other woman is answerable for a like crime!” answered Louis, hoarsely. “Louisa went to the same hospital; they were found side by side in that fearful sick ward, your wife and mine. Poor young creatures, scarcely more than children themselves. I saw the record of Catharine’s death, but of my poor girl there is no record, save of a discharge. I have been unable to gain one trace of her since she left the hospital walls. It is now more than three years, George; and I have borne this secret alone till my heart aches with the weight of it.” “I know, I know what it is,” answered the elder brother, passionately. “Thank God, we have met once more where at least the rash acts of our youth can find a voice. I little thought, Louis, how like your life had been to my own!” “Poor girls, poor young creatures! we led them into great misery, George.” George shrunk back, as if some thought, which had stung him for years, became a sudden pang. “Youth is sometimes very cruel,” he said, with the bitterness of self-reproach. “But Heaven is my judge, I never intended wrong to my poor young wife. Her condition was miserable enough with Madame De Marke, after our father’s death; and our secret marriage could hardly render it worse.”