“Yes, the Almshouse, aunt. Where else could I go? _He_ was away, and if he wrote, I never got the letter. His mother turned me out-of-doors, with bitter language and coarse abuse. I was afraid to come here.” “But if you were married, how dare Madame De Marke treat you in this way?” “She pretended not to believe me—though I am sure he told her of our marriage with his own lips. She was angry because I would not let her keep my certificate, and said it was all made up.” “Where did this marriage take place?” inquired the aunt, quickly. “In Philadelphia. He went there when Madame was away from home a week. She did not know of it.” “Let me read the certificate,” said the aunt, extending her hand; “if that is genuine, I will see that the rights of my relative are respected, let what will have gone before. This young man must inherit a fine property, De Marke was very rich. The certificate of marriage, girl. What are you waiting for?” The poor girl began to weep bitterly, and, wringing her hands, fell upon her knees before that haughty woman. “Oh! aunt, aunt, don’t ask me; I have lost it—I have lost it!” CHAPTER XVIII. TURNED OUT-OF-DOORS. Mrs. Judson drew back from her niece, gathering the folds of her dress around her, as if she feared those quivering little hands might impart shame to her person. “Oh!” she said, with bitter emphasis, “lost, is it? When? where?” “I don’t know. It was in my bosom when I was taken ill; but after that I remember nothing about it.” “Indeed!” exclaimed the aunt, and the unpleasant gleam broke fiercely into her eyes; “and as you lost the certificate,” she added, “what was the clergyman’s name who married you?” “I don’t remember. He told me that the paper was right, and I never troubled myself to read it. But _he_ knows, of course.” “Oh, of course, _he_ knows,” echoed the proud woman, disdainfully. “But the place? In what place was this wonderful marriage performed, did you say?” “In Philadelphia.” “Well, the street—in what street did this clergyman, with the forgotten name, live?” “I never knew,” answered the weeping girl; “but, oh! aunt, do not doubt me; for, as Heaven is my witness, we were married.” “Oh, yes! the proofs are conclusive,” answered the lady, with bitter irony. “Aunt, aunt, do believe me!” cried the girl, moving forward on her knees, and holding up her clasped hands. “_He_ will tell you how true it is; _he_ will get another certificate. He cannot be away much longer; let me live with you till he comes.” “When he comes to own you, in my presence, you shall have shelter here. Till then, never enter my door again. Go now, and live, if you can, on this falsehood and its shamelessness.” “Oh! aunt, aunt!” cried the wretched girl, “I am his wife—I am his wife! Look at me; do I blush? Do my eyes sink? Aunt, I am innocent of wrong as you are, and as truly a wedded wife as you ever were!”