At daylight a new thought stole upon Catharine. The library! Elsie might have concealed herself there, or might even be crouching near the door in the passage. She started up, ran along the passage, and flung open the library-door. There was Elsie, in the gray light of the morning, with one arm over the child, watching the pictures with her black, wakeful eyes, and with that triumphant smile still upon her lips. The red drapery, the beautiful head of the boy resting upon the cushions, and Elsie with those bright eyes and the iron-gray hair sweeping around her, formed a group that was more than picturesque. Catharine uttered a joyful cry, that brought the stranger and the two old people into the passage. The venerable parents ceased to weep as they approached the room, but a pallor came upon their faces, and they drew close together, as persons oppressed with a cold atmosphere strive to impart warmth each to the other. Elsie half arose, supporting herself with one hand pressed against the floor. “See, father—see, mother, I have got him. The night-angel let him loose upon the moonbeams, then came to my room, whispering that he was alone searching for his mother and fleeing from one who was not his mother, but who had stolen the name and kept it, while we, who had his blood in our veins, were pining. “I listened to the night-angel, for he is grand and true, though since I came here he has almost forsaken me. I listened to the night-angel, when he told me that a child of my blood was uttering cries for help in the open fields; that the forest-birds were scaring him with their hooting cries; and the woman who is _not_ his mother was searching for him. “The window was open, the grass underneath soft and silvered with moonshine. I flung out the folds of my shawl and stepped forth upon the air, sinking downward, but holding out the red wings of my drapery as the angels do when they descend from heaven—but they would not hold me up, and I fell upon the grass, which bathed my face and hands with its silver dew. Still I heard the cry of my child afar off, and mocked by a miserable whippoorwill, that taunted his agonies of fear with long, mournful wails, that pained me to the soul. I have heard that whining bird before; he loves to mock at me and mine. Years ago he began it, years from now he will keep it up. “My poor baby was there alone on the hillside, shrieking for me to come; I knew that the woman who is not his mother was after him heart and soul, as I was, the woman that is not his mother, who stands there!” Here Elsie half started from the floor, and pointed her finger at the poor young widow, who began to tremble and turned white beneath the gleam of those wild black eyes.