"This now—this letter—it was from my child. I called her my child, and yet no blood of mine ever flowed in her veins; and she called me 'mother,' because my heart warmed to her; God knows she had sore need of it, poor lamb.
"An old woman like myself may speak plain words, sir. He who was her child's father left her to weep over it alone. It was heart-breaking to see the poor young thing try to bear up, try to believe that he whom her innocent heart trusted, would turn out worthy of its love; but sometimes she would quite break down with the grief; and when she grew fretful with it, I did not chide her, because I knew her heart was chafed and sore.
"Her's was such a lovely babe; so bright, and handsome, and winsome. She was good and loving too. She had not sinned. She had been deceived and wronged. So she could not bear the taunting word, sir; and when it came, unexpectedly to us, she fled away like a hunted deer, through yonder door, till her poor strength gave out, and then we found her and the babe just like dead.
"I brought her home, and nursed her along, and thought to keep her, and make it all easy for her; but her young heart pined for him—she fancied, poor child, she could find him, and the world so wide—and that he would lift her pure brow in the taunting world's face, and call her 'wife;' and so she fled away in the night, no one knew whither, and left me this letter, sir. My eyes are dim—but I have no need to read it, for the words come up to me by day and by night; read it yourself, sir—mayhap in your travels, you may hear of the poor young thing—I should so like to know of her, before I die.
"The light is but dim, sir," said the old lady, as the traveler took it in his hand, and held the letter between his face and Mrs. Bond's.
Yes—the light was dim, so were the traveler's eyes; he must have been sadly feeble too, for his hands trembled so that he could scarcely hold the letter.
"And you never heard from her, after this?" he asked, his eyes still riveted on the letter.
"Not a word, sir; it makes me so sad when I think of it; perhaps she may be dead."
"Perhaps so," answered the traveler, shuddering.
"May be you could make some inquiries, sir, if it would not trouble you, as you go along; her name was Rose, though she looked more like a lily when she left us, poor thing! Rose—and her lover's name was Vincent; perhaps you may have heard of him."