When I was eighteen years old,
I fell in love with a young man, the son of one of the rich merchants of
San Francisco, where we had removed. Like many another foolish girl, I
trusted too implicitly, and believed too easily, and soon found myself
in a humiliating position, but trusted to the honor of my lover to stand
by me.
"'When I explained matters to him he seemed pleased, said he could fix
that easy enough; we would get married at once and claim a secret
marriage for some months past.
"'He arranged that I should meet him the next evening, and go to an old
priest in an obscure parish, and be married.
"'I stood long hours on a corner, half dead with fear, that night, for a
lover that never came. He's dead now, got run over in Oakland yard, that
very night, as he was running away from me, and as I waited and shivered
under the stars and the fire of my own conscience.'
"'Did he stand on one track, to get out of the way of another train, and
get struck?' I asked.
"'Yes,' looking at me close.
"'Did he have on a false moustache, and a good deal of money and
securities in a satchel, and everybody think at first he was a burglar?'
"'Yes; but how did you know that?'
"'Because, I killed him.
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