“With this promise, she sent me to the East Indies, where letters might not reach me for months; made that delicate girl a drudge of all work, and at last drove her to desperation, to the Almshouse, and, God pardon her!—I never can,—to death.” “It was a terrible fate,” said Louis; “but in charity to my mother, let us hope she was not all to blame. There was a time, George, when I can remember her a stylish and attractive woman—never generous or liberal, it is true, but far, far above what she is now. The powerful will of our father kept down her faults, and at his death they broke over all control. It seems to me that, on this one subject of money, she is a monomaniac.” “You are her son, Louis, and heaven knows I have little wish to wound you by talking of her failings; but you will comprehend how they bear on this case. If I fail to accomplish the conditions of our father’s will, this property goes to your mother during her life, and afterward to you.” “Yes, I know; there the sting lies. It is, in fact, my interest she is seeking. It is for me that she hoards and starves, and has committed this terrible wrong.” “No, it is for the love of hoarding. Did she not struggle to keep possession of your portion also?” “But that was for my own good, Madame urged; she was in terrible trouble about my fancied extravagance, and would gladly share her den with me in order to roll up her income. I really think it grieves her that I will not consent to this. But we were speaking of Catharine Lacy. I was in complete ignorance of everything you have told me regarding her. Indeed, my whole attention was too painfully occupied elsewhere. I was absent when Madame made her degrading change of residence.” “I know it; we were both sent out of the way, while she made arrangements for a life of miserable parsimony. Had I dreamed of the way she intended to live, my poor young wife would never have been left to her mercy. From her own confession, Catharine almost perished of absolute want in her miserable den.” “But her aunt, Mrs. Judson, was a rich woman. It is strange that she did not apply to her,” said Louis. “Did she never think of that?” “I cannot tell. Probably the poor angel kept her word too faithfully. She had promised not to make our marriage known. Remember, Louis, I was young, and did not think of the cruel necessity that might arise to protect herself by this very confession. When it came, Madame turned her into the street, and somehow—I had no heart to inquire the harrowing particulars—she reached the hospital, and died there!” The brothers were silent for some minutes; when they looked up, it was through a mist of tears which no manly pride could suppress. “They were together, your wife and mine,” said Louis, at last, drawing a hand across his eyes. “Poor Catharine!—poor Louisa!”