"I cannot tell. She was going to send me to the poorhouse, when Mr.

Maxwell took me in. I have often and often wanted to see the room where we lived in, and where mother died, but she wouldn't let me go up. One day I begged and cried for her to let me go up--I wanted to, so bad; but she called me a dirty little brat, and told me to go about my business, or she would get Mr. Maxwell to give me a beating. I never have tried to go there since."

"What is the woman's name?"

"Her name is Mrs. Claxon."

"And she lives three or four doors from Mr. Maxwell's?"

"Yes, sir."

"I am going home with you in a little while, and will get you to show me the house. Your mother had some furniture in her room?"

"Yes, sir. We had a bureau, and a bedstead, and a good many things."

"Do you know what was in the bureau?"

"Our clothes."

"Nothing else?"

"Mother had a beautiful little box that was always locked. It had letters in it, I think."

"Did you ever see her reading them?"

"Oh yes, often, when she thought I was asleep; and she would cry, sometimes, dreadful hard."

"This box Mrs. Claxon kept?"

"Yes, sir; she kept every thing."

"Very well. We will see if we can't make her give up some of the things."

"If she will give me that little box, she may have every thing else," said the lad.

"Why are you so desirous to have that box?"

"I sometimes think if I could get that box, and all the letters and papers it had in it, that I would be able to know better who I am, and why I mustn't go and see my uncle, who is rich, and could take me away from where I am now."

"You don't like to live with Mr. Maxwell, then?"

"Oh no, sir."

I did not question him as to the reason; that was unnecessary.

After putting up one or two prescriptions, (we had not then fallen into the modern more comfortable mode of _writing_ them,) I told the boy that I would walk home with him, and excuse him to his master for having stayed away so long. I had no great difficulty in doing this, although the shoemaker seemed at first a little fretted at my having taken up the lad's cause again. In pa.s.sing to his shop, the house where Mrs. Claxon lived was pointed out to me. Before leaving, I made Maxwell promise to let the boy come up on the next evening to get his feet dressed, telling him, what was true, that this was necessary to be done, or very serious consequences might follow.

I then called upon Mrs. Claxon. She was a virago. But the grave and important face that I put on when I asked if a Mrs. Miller did not once live in her house, subdued her. After some little hesitation, she replied in the affirmative.

"I knew as much," I said, thinking it well to let her understand from the beginning that it would not do to attempt deception.

"She died here, I believe?" I continued.

"Yes, sir; she died in my house."

"She left some property in your hands, did she not?"

"Property? Humph! If you call an old bed and bedstead, with other trumpery that didn't sell for enough to pay her back rent, _property_, why, then, she did leave property."

"Of course," I said, calmly. "Whatever she left was property; and, of course, in taking possession of it, you did so under a regular legal process. You took out letters of administration, I presume, and brought in your bill against the effects of the deceased, which was regularly pa.s.sed by the Orphans' Court, and paid out of the amount for which the things sold."

The effect of this was just what I desired. The woman looked frightened. She had done no such thing, as I knew very well.

"If you have proceeded in this way," I resumed, "all is well enough; but if you have not done so, I am sorry to say that you will most likely get yourself into trouble."

"How so, sir?" she asked, with increasing alarm.

"The law is very rigid in all these matters. When a person dies, there must be a regular administration upon his property. The law permits no one to seize upon his effects. In the case of Mrs.

Miller, if you were legally authorized to settle her estate, you can, of course, account for all that came into your hands. Now, I am about inst.i.tuting a rigid examination into the matter, and if I do not get satisfaction, shall have you summoned to appear before the Orphans' Court, and answer for your conduct. Mrs. Miller was highly connected, and it is believed had papers in her possession of vital importance to the living. These were contained in a small casket of costly and curious workmanship. This casket, with its contents, must be produced. Can you produce them?"

"Y-y-yes!" the alarmed creature stammered out.

"Very well. Produce them at once, if you wish to save yourself a world of trouble."

The woman hurried off up-stairs, and presently appeared with the casket.

"It is locked," she said. "I never could find the key, and did not like to force it open. She handed me the box as she spoke.

"Yes, this is it," I remarked, as if I was perfectly familiar with the casket. "You are sure the contents have not been disturbed?"

"Oh yes: very sure."

"I trust it will be found so. I will take possession of the casket.

In a few days you will hear from me."

Saying this, I arose and left the house. I directed my steps to the shop of a locksmith, whose skill quickly gave me access to the contents. They consisted mainly of papers, written in a delicate female hand; but there were no letters. Their contents were, to me, of a most gratifying kind. I read on every page the injured wife's innocence. The contents of the first paper I read, I will here transcribe. Like the others, it was a simple record of feelings, coupled with declarations of innocence. The object in view, in writing these, was not fully apparent; although the mother had evidently in mind her child, and cherished the hope that, after her death, these touching evidences of the wrong she had endured, would cause justice to be done to him.

The paper I mentioned was as follows, and appeared to have been written a short time after her divorce:--

"That I still live, is to me a wonder. But a few short months ago I was a happy wife, and my husband loved me with a tenderness that left my heart nothing to ask for. I am now cast off from his affections, driven from his home, repudiated, and the most horrible suspicions fastened upon me; And worse, the life of one who never wronged me by a look, or word, or act--in whose eyes my honour was as dear as his own--has been murdered. Oh! I shall yet go mad with anguish of spirit! There are heavy burdens to bear in this life; but none can be heavier than that which an innocent wife has to endure, when all accuse her as I am accused, and no hope of justice is left.

"Let me think calmly. Are not the proofs of my guilt strong? Those letters--those fatal letters--why did I keep them? I had no right to do so. They should have been destroyed. But I never looked at them from the day I gave my hand with my heart at the altar to one who now throws me off as a polluted wretch. But I knew they were there, and often thought of them; but to have read over one line of their contents, would have been false to my husband; and that I could not be, under any temptation. I think Westfield was wrong, under the circ.u.mstances, to visit me as constantly as he did; but my husband appeared to like his company, and even encouraged him to come. Many times he has asked him to drive me out, or to attend me to a concert or the theatre, as he knew that I wished to go, and he had business that required his attention, or felt a disinclination to leave home.

In not a single instance, when I thus went out, would not my pleasure have been increased, had my husband been my companion; and yet I liked the company of Westfield--perhaps too well. The remains of former feelings may still have lingered, unknown to me, in my heart. But I was never false to my husband, even in thought; nor did Westfield ever presume to take the smallest liberty. Indeed, whether in my husband's presence, or when with me, his manner was polite, and inclined to be deferential rather than familiar. I believe that the sentiments he held toward me before my marriage, remained; and these, while they drew him to my side, made him cherish my honour and integrity as a wife, as he would cherish the apple of his eye.

And yet he has been murdered, and I have been cast off, while both were innocent! Fatal haste! Fatal misjudgment! How suddenly have I fallen from the pinnacle of happiness into the dark pit of despair!

Alas! alas! Who can tell what a day may bring forth?"

Another, and very important paper, which the casket contained, was a written declaration of Mrs. Miller's innocence, made by Westfield before his death. It was evidently one of his last acts, and was penned with a feeble and trembling hand. It was in these impressive words:--

"Solemnly, in the presence of G.o.d, and without the hope of living but a few hours, do I declare that Mrs. Anna Miller is innocent of the foul charges made against her by her husband and brother, and that I never, even in thought, did wrong to her honour. I was on terms of close intimacy with her, and this her husband knew and freely a.s.sented to. I confess that I had a higher regard for her than for any living woman. She imbodied all my highest conceptions of female excellence. I was never happier than when in her company.