Going first to
the Asylum of which you were once an inmate, I managed after much
diligent inquiry to procure the address of the woman who brought
you there when you were about three years old. I had but little
hope of finding her, but determining to persevere I sought out the
humble cottage in the suburbs of the city. It was inhabited by an
elderly woman who denied all knowledge of Edith Hastings until
told that I was Richard Harrington. Then her manner changed at
once, and to my delight I heard that she was Marie's sister. She
owned the cottage, had lived there more than twenty years, and saw
your mother die. Petrea, it seems, had left her husband, intending
to return to Sweden, but sickness overtook her and she died in New
York, committing you to the faithful Marie's care in preference to
your father's. Such was her dread of him that she made Marie swear
to keep your existence a secret from him, lest he should take you
back to a place where she had been so wretched and where all the
influences, she thought, were bad.
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