"It cannot be helped. You must go without disturbing her, and I will break the news to her myself. Here is my purse for the present. What is your address?"
The woman gave it.
"Very well, you shall hear from me regularly; but should we ever meet again, in the street or elsewhere, you are not to know me, and you must forget all that has transpired to-night."
"Hum!" said the fat widow, doubtfully.
"And now you had better depart. The storm has almost ceased, and the night is passing away. Is Ev—is my wife awake?"
"No; I left her sleeping."
"So much the better. You can take it with you without disturbing her. Go."
The buxom widow arose and quitted the room. Oranmore lay on a lounge, rigidly motionless, his face hidden by his hand. A fierce storm was raging in his breast—"the struggle between right and wrong." Pride and ambition struggled with love and remorse, but the fear of the world conquered: and when the old woman re-entered, bearing a sleeping infant in her arms, he looked up as composedly as herself.
"Pretty little dear," said the widow, wrapping the child in a thick woolen shawl, "how nicely she sleeps! Very image of her mother, and she's the beautifulest girl I ever saw in my life. I gave her some paregoric to make her sleep till I go home. Well, good-night, sir. Our business is over."
"Yes, good-night. Remember the secret; forget what has transpired to-night, and your fortune is made. You will care for it"—and he pointed to the child—"as though it were your own."