He turned from the old woman with new-born gentleness. His white lips quivered with tender emotion, his eyes grew dark and misty, he forgot that the creature before him had trampled all that he loved in the dust. Thoughts of his wife and child filled his whole being. He turned away, and was passing through the door, when Madame De Marke addressed him. “Where are you going?” she said. “In search of my wife and child!” The last word thrilled through and through his whole being. His face, that had been pale till now, flushed to the temples, and a smile of ineffable sweetness broke over his lips, as the word, “My child,” left them. He even looked at the wicked old woman as if demanding sympathy for his new joy from her. “If they are upon earth, I shall find them,” he said, “by to-morrow, at the furthest, I shall find them.” “And what will you do with them when they are found?” demanded the old woman, maliciously. “What will I do?” said the youth, “what will I do? Why, give up my strong manhood to their support; for I am strong now.” And so he was. Youth and hope and earnest feeling gave to his nature the energy of middle age. He went down those flights of winding stairs, with every nerve of his body awake to the joy singing at his heart. What cared he that his child was born in an Almshouse? Was it not _his_ child, was not Catharine alive? Was he not young, and strong to work, to suffer, to be her protector, body and soul forever? For he could imagine no time when his love for the sweet girl would cease to be immortal. What cared he, that, by his father’s will, Madame De Marke had power to withhold his inheritance for a time? Let her have it. The West was broad and land plenty; a log house among the prairies, with Catharine and her child, would be heaven enough for him. While these hopeful thoughts floated through his brain, the old woman listened to his light footsteps, grasping the door with one hand, while her witch-like face peered through into the dark passage. When his footsteps died away, she drew back, and closed herself in, with a low chuckle. She sat down, dropping one hand on her lap with a quickness that impressed the cat as a signal; and leaping upon the old woman’s knee, the animal sat there, gazing into the evil brightness of her eyes with a look of kindred intelligence. The woman smoothed the ragged back of her favorite with one hand, while a grin of satisfaction disturbed her mouth. “I hope he will find ’em, Peg, don’t you?” The cat crept upward, and laid her paws on the old woman’s shoulder; then with a leap that made her mistress give forth a cowardly scream, she sprang over, and seizing a poor little mouse that was attempting to escape under the door, began to torture it with her paws. Madame De Marke sat up half an hour later than usual that night, watching the cat as she prolonged her malicious enjoyment, looking away from its trembling victim now and then as if to claim her sympathy.