“But you left her alive?” said George, growing more and more excited.
“In course I did!”
“And had no proofs of her death after?”
“Proofs, yer honor? What proofs could I have of her death, when she came her own self to my home, after that, and slept in the same bed wid the childer for a whole month, to say nothing of the strange baby, as the other poor crathur left ahint her.”
“Stop!” said George, starting up with a flush upon his forehead, while his whole frame quivered with excitement. “Be careful what you say. A mistake in this matter would be madness to us both. Are you sure, my good woman, quite sure, that the fair girl came forth alive from that hospital, and that the other died there?”
“Quite sure? Faix and I am, if one’s own blessed eyes are to be trusted. Didn’t I straighten one out for her coffin, and nurse the other into life when she lay at death’s door—to say nothin’ of the bit of a baby!”
“One word more, Mrs. Dillon. Do try and remember. Did either of these young creatures ever call each other by name in your hearing?”
“Faix, and they mentioned a good many names, I’m thinking, especially the fair one; but they seemed to mane nothing.”
“But among those names was that of George or Louis ever mentioned?”
“Agin and agin, yer honors; but it was in the fever, not atween themselves.”