“‘Why do you speak in this way? God is over all, and he knows there is nothing to forgive.’ “I remembered my promise then. No wrong that you could inflict, would absolve me from that. It was on my lips to say this man is my husband, but I drew the bitter truth back into my heart, where it shall lie buried forever. “I answered her question vaguely, saying that I did not think any good man would have permitted her to come there. “Then she began to cry bitterly, and amid her tears begged me not to think so. Her coming there was no fault of the person we were speaking of. He was far away across the ocean, and could know nothing of it. “I have risen from my cot, and seated on the floor, I scrawl this, by the dim night-lamp upon the wall. She may be asleep; I dare not speak to her again; I have nothing more to learn, nothing to hope for. “It is morning, I have folded my letter, and send it after you, black with shadows. If my fate is life, you and I shall never meet again on this earth. I am a poor, weak woman, but not poor enough, even in this place, to wait for a man who married me out of compassion for the great love I bore him. “Oh! how I did love you, my husband, how I do love you this miserable minute—forgive me! forgive me! I shall never say this to you again; but every pulse beats with love for you—but you! It was only pity. At sunset last night I was ill, and afraid to die. The day has broken, and I am praying God in mercy to let me die. You never loved me! miserable thought. If God grants my prayer, look for the record! It will be Mary Barton, died so and so. The name will pass unnoticed by every one else. You will understand that it is your poor wife who died here all alone. Then you will pity her, and perhaps love her memory a little. Let me sign your name? It will be the first and last time. LOUISA DE MARKE.” When George De Marke finished reading this letter, Louis dropped the hand from over his forehead, and parted his lips as if to speak; but the pallid agony of his brother’s face checked him; and they, who had met so eagerly, sat together minute after minute in dumb silence. At length Louis spoke. “It was a terrible mistake, but one which no human foresight could have prevented,” he said. “Poor girl! if she is ever found—but this seems almost hopeless. I have omitted nothing in my search for her.” George made a strong effort to throw off the pain this glimpse of his wife’s death-bed had brought upon him, and strove to enter into his brother’s anxiety. “Have you no trace of her?” he questioned. “None; an old man who walked about the grounds saw her on the day of her discharge, sitting on a wharf, close by the walls of the hospital.” “With her child?” “She took no child with her, he said, but sat in that one spot till night. From that time I have lost all trace of her.” “Have you ever questioned Mrs. Judson?”