She could not then say whom, for if she were right in her belief, Genevra was not dead. There were no daisies growing on her grave, for she still walked the earth a living woman, whom Katy knew so well--Marian Hazelton. That was the name Katy could not speak, as, with the blood curdling in her veins and freezing about her heart, she sat comparing the face she remembered so well with the one before her. In some points they were unlike, for thirteen years had slightly marred the youthful contour of the face she knew--had sharpened the features and thinned the abundant hair; but still there could be no mistake. The eyes, the brow, the smile, the nose, all were the same, and with a pang bitterer than she yet had felt, poor Katy fell upon her face and asked that she might die. In her utter ignorance of law, she fancied that if Genevra were alive, she had no right to Wilford's name--no right to be his wife--especially as the sin for which Genevra was divorced had by her never been committed, and burning tears of bitter shame ran down her cheeks as she whispered, "'What God hath joined together let no man put asunder.' Those are God's words, and how dare the world act otherwise? She is his wife, and I--oh! I don't know what I am!" and on the carpet where she was kneeling Katy writhed in agony as she tried to think what she must do. Not stay there--she could not do that now--not, at least, until she knew for sure that she was Wilford's wife, in spite of Genevra's living. Maybe she was; there was a Mrs. Grainier in the city divorced from her first husband and living with her second; but then the man was a profligate, a most abandoned wretch, who had not been proved innocent, as Genevra had, and that must make a difference. "Oh, if there was only some one to advise me--some one who knew and would tell me what was right," Katy moaned, feeling herself inadequate to meet the dark hour alone.