I heard nothing more about the matter,
and now felt quite satisfied that I had heard the last of Rosanna. As
years rolled on, things prospered with me, and so fortunate was I in
all speculations that my luck became proverbial. Then, alas! when all
things seemed to smile upon me, my wife died, and the world
has never seemed the same to me since. But I had my dear daughter to
console me, and in her love and affection I became reconciled to the
loss of my wife. A young Irish gentleman, called Brian Fitzgerald, came
out to Australia, and I soon saw that my daughter was in love
with him, and that he reciprocated that affection, whereat I was glad,
as I have always esteemed him highly. I looked forward to their
marriage, when suddenly a series of events occurred, which must be
fresh in the memory of those who read these pages. Mr. Oliver Whyte, a
gentleman from London, called on me and startled me with the news that
my first wife, Rosanna Moore, was still living, and that the story of
her death had been an ingenious fabrication in order to deceive me. She
had met with an accident, as stated in the newspaper, and had been
taken to an hospital, where she recovered. The young doctor, who had
sent me the certificate of her death, had fallen in love with her, and
wanted to marry her, and had told me that she was dead in order that
her past life might be obliterated. The doctor, however, died before
the marriage, and Rosanna did not trouble herself about undeceiving me.
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