“All this and much more my good housekeeper said in answer to the questions which I put to her as my reason began to connect the present with the past. She did not hesitate to inform me of anything that I might wish to know, for she had no belief in my power to understand and connect her narrative. I had often questioned her before, and invariably forgot her answers as they fell from her lips; but every word of this conversation was graven on my memory, and if I have not repeated her exact language, the spirit and detail of her information is preserved.
“There was one subject that my housekeeper had not mentioned—my child. At first my intellect was too feeble for continued thought, and I did not notice this strange omission. Besides, some painful intuition kept me silent; the very thought of my own child was painful.
“At last I questioned her.
“‘Where,’ I said, ‘is my daughter? Surely, in my illness he has not kept her from me?’
“The old woman became deadly pale; she turned away, repulsing the subject with a gesture of her withered hands, which terrified me.
“‘My child!’ I said; ‘why are you silent? What have you done with her?’
“Still the old woman was speechless; but I could see tears stealing down her face.
“‘Bring her hither,’ I said, sick with apprehension; ‘I wish to see how much my daughter has grown.’
“The old woman flung herself at my feet. Her hands gathered up mine and held them fast.
“‘Do not ask—do not seek to remember. Oh! my lady, forget that you ever had a child!’