“Who made you cry, mamma?—who made you cry?” “No one, darling,” said the widow, struggling against the recoil of her own heart, but forced, as it were, to unclasp his little hands. The boy drew back, and his bright lips began to quiver. “I have lost the butterfly,” he sobbed, regretfully, following the gossamer wings, as they floated away, with his eyes; “and now my own mamma don’t care about my kisses!” “She does—she does!” cried the widow, sinking to her knees, and winding her arms around the child. “The better, all the better, if these dear eyes are his. Ah, I knew! I knew that there was some sweet mystery in a love that no mother ever felt more purely for her own child. Oh, it is everything to know that his life fills my arms, that I have fed and cherished it so long!” “Woman, what is this?” cried Mrs. Judson, stalking across the floor and laying her hand heavily on her daughter’s shoulder; “are you raving mad? Is it a De Marke you speak of?” “Yes, mother,” said the widow, rising to her feet, but with the child’s hand in hers. “It is of a De Marke that I speak; appearances may be against him, but I will not believe him so wicked till the proofs are beyond contradiction. Louisa may be dead; Catharine Lacy may be dead; but though their last acts and their last words accuse him, I will not believe them. Something of trouble and sorrow there may be, but nothing that should bring contempt upon an honorable man!” Mrs. Judson stood motionless, towering upright like a pillar of marble. Her voice was concentrated and hoarse; she made no gestures, but her eyes absolutely burned with indignation. “And you know this De Marke?” “Yes, mother, I know him!” “Have seen him since your husband’s death, perhaps?” “Yes, mother, often!” “Here in this house, no doubt, where the widow came to bury her griefs?” Here the proud woman’s wrath blazed forth. Her hand was clenched; her foot was half lifted from the floor, as if to spurn the widow and child from her presence. “Here, I say, here you may have received him, in a house consecrated to tears, under the roof which shelters your mother!” she continued, lifting her hoarse voice. The young widow stood pale and firm before all this wrath; and the pretty child clung to her eagerly, following each motion of the haughty woman with his brave, bright eyes. “It is true,” she said, “I have seen him here.” “And you encourage him?” “Mother, I love him!” The words were spoken unfalteringly, but with that gentle dignity that always accompanies truthful courage. The mother looked at her in white wrath. Her hand was slowly uplifted, her lips moved without uttering a sound, and with this mute malediction she left the room, and, in a few moments, the house. CHAPTER LXVII. THE WOUNDED BIRD.