Besides the paper in the handwriting of Mrs. Miller, which I have given, there were many more, evidently written at various times, but all shortly after her separation from her husband. They imbodied many touching allusions to her condition, united with firm expressions of her entire innocence of the imputation under which she lay. One sentiment particularly arrested my attention, and answered the question that constantly arose in my mind, as to why she did not attempt, by means of Westfield's dying asseveration, to establish her innocence. It was this:—
"He has prejudged me guilty and cast me off without seeing me or giving me a hearing, and then insulted me by a legislative tender of five hundred dollars a year. Does he think that I would save myself, even from starvation, by means of his bounty? No—no—he does not know the woman he has wronged."
After going over the entire contents of the casket, I replaced them, and sent the whole to Mr. Miller, with a brief note, stating that they had come into my possession in rather a singular manner, and that I deemed it but right to transmit them to him. Scarcely half an hour had elapsed from the time my messenger departed, before Miller himself entered my office, pale and agitated. I had met him a few times before, and had a slight acquaintance with him.
"This is from you, I believe, doctor?" he said, holding up the note I had written him.
I bowed.
"How did you come in possession of the casket you sent me?" he continued as he took the chair I handed him.
I was about replying, when he leaned over toward me, and laying his hand upon my arm, said, eagerly—
"First tell me, is the writer of its contents living?"
"No," I replied; "she has been dead over two years."
His countenance fell, and he seemed, for some moments, as if his heart had ceased to beat. "Dead!" he muttered to himself—"dead! and I have in my hands undoubted proofs of her innocence."