“Yes, certainly it is.”
“Ah! it is; when was it written?”
“The last day of your dear mother’s life. Ah! now I remember, it was from that day you took your favor from me.”
“Yes, madam,” he said, withdrawing the fatal note from the envelope, and laying it before her, adding, “Do you acknowledge this as your writing also?”
Catherine looked at the note without heeding the words, and raising her innocent eyes with wonder to his face, answered, without an instant’s hesitation—
“Yes, assuredly, that is mine!”
Her perfect unconsciousness should have convinced him of her innocence—would have done so perhaps, but that, prejudiced against her, he took her manner to be super-refined art; and determined to force her to the point, he said—
“Would you swear it?”
Catherine took up the letter and examined it.
“Ay! read it, read it.”