Once alone with the child, Mrs. Oakley gave way to the painful thoughts that crowded upon her. What right had she to feel these pangs of bitter jealousy regarding a man who had never spoken to her of love? Who had never, in word at least, expressed more than a friendly interest in her or hers? Was it her place to arraign the man as false or wicked who had given her no power to question his slightest action? And—oh shame on her womanhood—had she not confessed to loving him unsought, shamelessly confessed it, and, above all, to that austere mother who held the faintest approach to enthusiasm as a species of madness? The blood burned upon that young cheek as she remembered the words that scarcely seemed her own—words that had driven that proud mother from her roof, and now burned in fiery shame upon her cheek. But this sudden intelligence had driven her almost mad. Doubt, jealousy, and a thousand wild pangs rent her heart with a pain never dreamed of before. “Oh, if the dead could arise, if the truth could be dragged up from the depths of their graves! I cannot believe it, I will _not_ believe it. My own cousin—my own dear sister, oh, if it should be true—if he has indeed wronged them in this fearful way.” She had sunk to the floor, and burying her face in her folded arms, murmuring these things aloud. The poor woman was so unused to passionate conflicts, that this gust of sorrow swept over her like madness. “Mother,” said Edward, laying one plump hand on her shoulder, and bending his grieved face lovingly to hers, “mother dear, look up! The lady, the lady!” Mrs. Oakley lifted her face, affrighted that her passion should have had other witnesses than the child. But when she recognized the intruder, the feeling of annoyance gave way, and she arose with a sad smile, apologizing for her singular position. “I have brought a lame bird for little Edward to nurse,” said Catharine, entering the drawing-room, with her right hand folded over a robin nestled in the palm of her left. “Some cat has wounded it, I fancy. See, darling, what I have brought for you.” Catharine spoke hurriedly, and turned her eyes away from Mrs. Oakley, for a single glance at her agitated face was enough to arouse all the instinctive delicacy of her nature. “I don’t want a lame robin,” said Edward, turning away with tears in his eyes. “They have hurt my pretty mamma, and I’d rather take care of her. She’s worse wounded than the bird.” Mrs. Oakley’s face flushed with fond triumph as the boy came toward her; turning her eyes upon Catharine, she said, “Isn’t he truthful? Is there a drop of faithless blood in his veins?” “He is an angel!” answered Catharine, gazing fondly on the child, and stooping down, she passed her hand through the curls that fell over his white forehead. In doing this she exposed the tiny red cross which we have before seen among those clustering curls.