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 could not be, under any temptation.  I think Westfield was wrong, under the circumstances, to visit me as constantly as he did; but my husband appeared to like his company, and even encouraged him to come.  Many times he has asked him to drive me out, or to attend me to a concert or the theatre, as he knew that I wished to go, and he had business that required his attention, or felt a disinclination to leave home.  In not a single instance, when I thus went out, would not my pleasure have been increased, had my husband been my companion; and yet I liked the company of Westfield—­perhaps too well.  The remains of former feelings may still have lingered, unknown to me, in my heart.  But I was never false to my husband, even in thought; nor did Westfield ever presume to take the smallest liberty.  Indeed, whether in my husband’s presence, or when with me, his manner was polite, and inclined to be deferential rather than familiar.  I believe that the sentiments