“You do well to speak so coolly,” said she, “you that are the cause of her situation.” “That I am not,” said Catherine bluntly; “nor any woman born.” “What! was it not you and your husband that kept them apart? and now he has gone to Italy all alone. Situation indeed! You have broken her heart amongst you.” “Why, madam? Who is it then? in Heaven's name! To hear you, one would think this was my Gerard's lass. But that can't be. This fur never cost less than five crowns the ell; besides, this young gentlewoman is a wife; or ought to be.” “Of course she ought. And who is the cause she is none? Who came before them at the very altar?” “God forgive them, whoever it was,” said Catherine gravely; “me it was not, nor my man.” “Well,” said the other, a little softened, “now you have seen her, perhaps you will not be quite so bitter against her madam. She is coming to, thank Heaven.” “Me bitter against her?” said Catherine; “no, that is all over. Poor soul! trouble behind her and trouble afore her; and to think of my setting her, of all living women, to read Gerard's letter to me. Ay, and that was what made her go off, I'll be sworn. She is coming to. What, sweetheart! be not afeard, none are here but friends.” They seated her in an easy chair. As the colour was creeping back to her face and lips. Catherine drew Margaret Van Eyck aside. “Is she staying with you, if you please?” “No, madam.” “I wouldn't let her go back to Sevenbergen to-night, then.” “That is as she pleases. She still refuses to bide the night.” “Ay, but you are older than she is; you can make her. There, she is beginning to notice.” Catherine then put her mouth to Margaret Van Eyck's ear for half a moment; it did not seem time enough to whisper a word, far less a sentence. But on some topics females can flash communication to female like lightning, or thought itself. The old lady started, and whispered back-- “It's false! it is a calumny! it is monstrous! look at her face. It is blasphemy to accuse such a face.” “Tut! tut! tut!” said the other; “you might as well say this is not my hand. I ought to know; and I tell ye it is so.” Then, much to Margaret Van Eyck's surprise, she went up to the girl, and taking her round the neck, kissed her warmly. “I suffered for Gerard, and you shed your blood for him I do hear; his own words show me that I have been to blame, the very words you have read to me. Ay, Gerard, my child, I have held aloof from her; but I'll make it up to her once I begin. You are my daughter from this hour.” Another warm embrace sealed this hasty compact, and the woman of impulse was gone. Margaret lay back in her chair, and a feeble smile stole over her face. Gerard's mother had kissed her and called her daughter; but the next moment she saw her old friend looking at her with a vexed air. “I wonder you let that woman kiss you.” “His mother!” murmured Margaret, half reproachfully.