oman hurried off up-stairs, and presently appeared with the
casket.

"It is locked," she said. "I never could find the key, and did not
like to force it open. She handed me the box as she spoke.

"Yes, this is it," I remarked, as if I was perfectly familiar with
the casket. "You are sure the contents have not been disturbed?"

"Oh yes: very sure."

"I trust it will be found so. I will take possession of the casket.
In a few days you will hear from me."

Saying this, I arose and left the house. I directed my steps to the
shop of a locksmith, whose skill quickly gave me access to the
contents. They consisted mainly of papers, written in a delicate
female hand; but there were no letters. Their contents were, to me,
of a most gratifying kind. I read on every page the injured wife's
innocence. The contents of the first paper I read, I will here
transcribe. Like the others, it was a simple record of feelings,
coupled with declarations of innocence. The object in view, in
writing these, was not fully apparent; although the mother had
evidently in mind her child, and cherished the hope that, after her
death, these touching evidences of the wrong she had endured, would
cause justice to be done to him.

The paper I mentioned was as follows, and appeared to have been
written a short time after her divorce:--

"That I still live, is to me a wonder. But a few short months ago I
was a happy wife, and my husband loved me with a tenderness that
left my heart nothing to ask for. I am now cast off from his
affections, driven from his home, repudiated, and the most horrible
suspicions fastened upon me; And worse, the life of one who never
wronged me by a look, or word, or act--in whose eyes my honour was
as dear as his own--has been murdered. Oh! I shall yet go mad with
anguish of spirit! There are heavy burdens to bear in this life; but
none can be heavier than that which an innocent wife has to endure,
when all accuse her as I am accused, and no hope of justice is left.

"Let me think calmly. Are not the proofs of my guilt strong? Those
letters--those fatal letters--why did I keep them? I had no right to
do so. They should have been destroyed. But I never looked at them
from the day I gave my hand with my heart at the altar to one who
now throws me off as a polluted wretch. But I knew they were there,
and often thought of them; but to have read over one line of their
contents, would have been false to my husband; and that I co