“So I thought,” said the mother, smoothing the folds of her dress with feelings of deep self-satisfaction; “it was far better to keep him in ignorance. But for your mention of that young reprobate, I should not have distressed you or myself by speaking of it.” Mrs. Oakley shrunk back with a shudder as De Marke was thus alluded to, but gathering up courage, proceeded with the subject. “But what proofs have you that _he_ was to blame, mother?” “It was conclusive. He it was that deluded her away from my protection, he told me so himself.” “But,” said the widow, looking suddenly up, while a gleam of light kindled the tears that filled her eyes, “he may have been married to her!” “Yes,” answered the mother sharply, “and he may have been to Catharine Lacy at the same time.” Mrs. Judson drew a small embroidered portfolio from her pocket, and springing the gold clasp, took from among other documents a copy of the letter which Jane Kelly had found in the prayer-book, and which so long after had reached Louis De Marke. Mrs. Oakley reached forth her hand with an effort, and nerved herself to read the letter through. Her face grew paler and paler as she proceeded; the tears crowded to her eyes, and spite of all her efforts, the letter quivered like a dry leaf in her grasp. At last she looked sadly up at her mother. “And did they both die with _his_ name upon their lips?” “It is the usual infatuation,” answered Mrs. Judson, bitterly, but evading the direct question. “But the child, poor Louisa’s child, what became of that?” Spite of her self-command, Mrs. Judson shrunk from the question. She had never inquired regarding this child, and a sensation of shame crept over her as she admitted the fact. “Then you do not know if it is dead or living?” inquired Mrs. Oakley, in a low, grave voice, which fell upon the proud woman’s ear like a rebuke, which she was instantly ready to resent. “Did you expect me to drag proofs of our own disgrace before the world, Mrs. Townsend Oakley?” The widow arose, her cheeks flushed and her lips quivering. “I will search for this child. If it is alive, God will permit me to make atonement,” she said, gently. That instant little Edward entered the room. The curls were blown back from his broad forehead, and his eyes sparkled; he had caught a great painted butterfly, and held it up in triumph. The attitude, the curve of his bright lips, the whole face, struck both these women with one thought, and their eyes met. A sudden and dark frown swept over the face of Mrs. Judson, while the daughter grew still and white, as if all the blood in her veins had turned to snow. “You need not search far,” said Mrs. Judson, pointing her finger at the child, “he came from the institution.” Mrs. Oakley slowly approached the boy. Her hands trembled violently as she put back his hair, and a spasm of pain shot through her as the boy sprang up, and locking his arms over her neck, attempted to surprise her with his eager kisses.