"I could never ascertain whether the ceremony had been performed by a legalized minister; I always suspected my poor cousin had been deceived, and it was because my aunt thought so, too, and was sore on the subject, that she got so angry with you two gentlemen when you went to inquire. But, whether my suspicions were or were not correct, Nora was George's wife as certainly, in the sight of the angels, as woman was ever the wife of man. Poor child! I no longer hesitated about coming to New York. She needed my protection, and my help, too. I paid her board till the day of her death, which was but a few days after her poor little baby was born; I saw her decently buried, and then I put out the infant to nurse, and I worked to keep that. It was a comfort to me, sir. My own heart was sad, and I took to the little creature almost as if it was my own. I had promised Nora that I would bring it up, and I have kept my word, thus far. I hated its father for the way he'd treated Nora, but I loved the child; I took pleasure in making its pretty garments and in seeing that it was well taken care of. I knew I should never marry; and I adopted Nora's child as my own. "Hardly was poor Nora cold in her grave when I was, one evening, surprised by a visit from George Thorley. Where he had been during his absence I did not know. He tried to excuse his conduct toward my cousin, by saying that he had married her in a fit of jealousy, to which I'd driven him by my coldness; that he'd been so tormented in mind he couldn't stay with her, for he didn't love her, and he'd gone out West, and been hard at work, to try and forget the past. But he couldn't forget it; and when he saw his wife's death in the papers, he had felt awfully; but now he hoped I'd forgive it all, and marry him. He said he had a good business started in Cincinnati, and I should want for nothing, and I _mustn't_ say no to him again. I stood up, I was so indignant, and faced him till he grew as white as a sheet. I called him a _murderer_--yes, Nora's murderer--and ordered him never to speak to me nor come near me again. I knew he was terribly angry; his eyes burned like fire; but he did not say much that time; as he took up his hat to go, he asked about his baby--if it was living? I would not answer him. He had no right to the child, and I did not wish him to see it, or have any thing to do with it.