ora's death from Tom, and was waiting for--I did not know
what, unless it was to hear from him personally. There was more
manliness in that negro's nature than in mine, and I knew it, and was
ashamed of myself, and went for my daughter and stood by my wife's
grave, and heard from Jake the story of her life, and knew she had kept
her promise and never opened her lips, except to say that 'it was all
right.'

"The people believed her for the most part, and anathematized the
unknown man who had deserted her, but they could not heap upon me all
the odium I deserved. Why the story has never reached here I hardly
know, except that intercourse between the North and the extreme South
was not as easy as it is now, and then the war swept off Tom Hardy and
most likely all who knew of the marriage.

"When I brought Amy home I was too proud to acknowledge her as my
daughter. The Harrises and the palmetto clearing stood in the way, and I
let people think what they chose, hating myself with an added hatred for
allowing a stain to rest on her birth. I was fond of her in a way, and
angry when she married Candida, who died in Rome. Then she married a
Smith, who took her round the country to sing in concerts, until her
mind gave way, when he put her in a private asylum in San Francisco. I
was very proud of her, and loved her more than she ever knew, but could
not confess my relationship to her. When she married Candida I cast her
off. She must have some of my spirit, for she never came begging for
favors. Her rascally second husband wrote once for money, but I shut him
up so that he never wrote again, and the next I heard was a message from
Santa Barbara, where he died, and where, before he died, he had bidden
his physician to write to me that his wife was in an asylum in San
Francisco. I found her and brought her home, shattered in health and in
mind, but I think she will recover. If she does before I die, I have
sworn to tell her the truth, and will do it, so help me God!

"She has at times spoken of a baby who died,--Smith's probably, and I
hated him and did not care for his child. I have thought to make my
will, but would rather write this confession, which will explain things
and put Amy right as my heir. I have, however, one request to make to
her, or those who attend to her affairs. I want my nephew, Howard, to
have twenty thousand dollars,--enough for any young man to start on if
there is any get-up in him, and Howard has conside