“Do not go yet!” pleaded Catharine, catching her breath, and for the first time realizing her position and the strangeness of her conduct. “The grounds are pleasant always at sunset, and so little disturbed, that you can find the charm of a wild wood almost in them. I should like to show you some of the finest views.” The lady smiled, and bent her head in acceptance of this kind offer. CHAPTER XLV. THE STRANGE LADY AND HER CHILD. Catharine reached out her hand. The little boy looked up with a rosy smile, and gave his. “Do you like to hunt bird’s-nests, and wade through the wet grass for peppermint, darling?” she inquired, taking the child’s hand, while her own began to tremble at the touch. “I don’t know about the other, but birds, yes, yes, I love birds; mamma has got, oh, so many, in a big cage at home,” answered the boy. “He has not been much used to the country,” added the mother; “we only came to the Island last week, and our place is so new, that it scarcely can be called rural just now. These old trees and thickets make me almost dissatisfied with the barrenness of our home.” “Then you live in the new house yonder? I am glad of it. We are close neighbors. I have looked at your pretty villa from the window yonder, for months, wondering who would live in it. You will remain there, and this little boy—oh, how glad I am that he will stay in the neighborhood.” “Thank you; this is very kind, after our intrusion; but your father must think it strange. We did not intend to come so near the house,” said the lady, glancing at the window, at which a venerable head appeared, while Elsie was seen fluttering like an unquiet spirit in the dusk of the room beyond. “He is not my father,” said Catharine, simply, “only the person I live with. His daughter is ill; I am her friend, that is all.” “The companion of a sick woman, and so young, so—” The lady was about to have said “so beautiful,” but checked herself, blushing. “It is a pleasant life,” said Catharine, “and I am happy in it—merely to have a _home_ is so much of itself.” “Yes, it must be a great blessing to those who have ever been homeless,” answered the lady, with a look of interest. “It makes me shudder to think how desolate a poor young creature must be, cast upon the wide world. I have known beautiful, helpless women driven to the very almshouse from the want of a roof to shelter them.” A shudder passed over the lady as she spoke, and her eyes filled with trouble. “Yes,” said Catharine, with a degree of composure that had the dignity of experience in it, “I have seen these things—they do happen, but there are troubles that make even the almshouse as nothing. While we have one true heart to love us, it is shelter enough. To be unloved is perfect desolation.” A faint blush stole over the lady’s face, the flush of suppressed tears. She looked down at the child, and clasped his hand closer.