I married again, and my domestic life was a
singularly happy one. As the colony grew greater, with every year I
became even more wealthy than I had been, and was looked up to and
respected by my fellow-citizens. When my dear daughter Margaret was
born, I felt that my cup of happiness was full, but suddenly I received
a disagreeable reminder of the past. Rosanna's mother made her
appearance one day--a disreputable-looking creature, smelling of gin,
in whom I could not recognise the respectably-dressed woman who used to
accompany Rosanna to the theatre. She had spent long ago all the money
I had given her, and had sank lower and lower, until she now lived in a
slum off Little Bourke Street. I made enquiries after the child, and
she told me it was dead. Rosanna had not taken it to England with her,
but had left it in her mother's charge, and, no doubt, neglect and want
of proper nourishment was the cause of its death. There now seemed to
be no link to bind me to the past with the exception of the old hag,
who knew nothing about the marriage. I did not attempt to undeceive
her, but agreed to allow her enough to live on if she promised never to
trouble me again, and to keep quiet about everything which had
reference to my connection with her daughter. She promised readily
enough, and went back to her squalid dwelling in the slums, where, for
all I know, she still lives, as money has been paid to her regularly
every month by my solicitors.
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