“That’ll do! that’ll do, Peg!” said the old woman at last, waving her hand as if to command an execution; “I’m getting sleepy, Peg, kill the thing.” The cat turned her head, holding down the victim with one claw. “Don’t you hear, Peg?” said the old woman, starting up, “kill it, I say!” The cat made a quick movement, and away darted the mouse through a crevice between the door and the threshold. The old woman laughed with great glee, while Peg slunk away under the bed, looking very much ashamed of her bungling; but when the tallow candle was put out, and Madame safe in bed, she ventured to creep out and coil herself up over the old woman’s feet; and with this companionship alone was Madame de Marke left, not only that night, but for months after. CHAPTER XXXII. SEARCHING FOR HIS WIFE. George de Marke walked the streets of New York all that night. Long before daybreak he was hovering around the walls of Bellevue, working off his impatience by abrupt turns among the neighboring streets, or standing upon the wharf with his face to the east, watching for the first quiver of daylight upon the waters of the river. It was strange, but no misgiving seemed to reach him during that long watch; and he looked upon the gloomy walls of the hospital with a feeling of profound interest; for they had sheltered his wife and child, and anything seemed less degrading to the young man than the miserable home of his stepmother. At last the day gave its first faint glow along the horizon, shedding a pale brilliancy down upon the water, and revealing the Long Island shore in faint glimpses, half of mist, half of light. Then came a soft, rosy bloom, breaking through the mist, and trembling down upon the water as if a shower of rose-leaves had fallen upon the river during the night-watches. All this seemed very beautiful to the young man, and each new ray of light came to his soul like a promise. It was not till the soft pink tints were all washed away with a deluge of gold from the rising sun, that the youth turned from the wharf and sought admission to the hospital. The attempt was fruitless. Not till deep in the morning could he gain admission within the walls; so he plunged into the city again, and wandered as before, at random, filled with but one thought, and hungry—not for food, but for knowledge of the only objects dear to him on earth. Late in the day, he found admission to the hospital. Catharine was not there. He could learn nothing of her or her child, and now stood by a clerk’s desk, waiting with faint heart for the tidings the dumb pages of the register might give him. “Catharine, Catharine De Marke,” muttered the clerk, and running his finger down the column of names, “I find no such name here. There are plenty of Catharines, but no De Markes. You must be mistaken, sir,—the register never is.”