Catharine caught her breath at the sight, and drew away her fingers as if the cross had been of living fire. “What is this?—whose child is this?” she questioned. “If I did but know—if I could but have a certainty!” answered the widow, almost wildly. “But why do you ask just now? Has every one conspired to torture me with doubts and accusations? Who told you that he was not my child?” “No one,” answered Catharine. “Up to this hour I supposed that he was your child; but this mark,—forgive me, but I have seen it before.” “When? how? Where did you ever see this red cross upon his temple?” “I saw it, or one exactly like it, some years ago, upon an infant not three months old,” said Catharine, answering the impassioned interrogation with thoughtful sadness. “And where?—not that the children could possibly have been the same, you know,—but where was the child with a cross like this?” Catharine hesitated a moment, and then answered with grave composure,— “The child was a nursling in the house of a poor Irish woman, who was kind to me when I wanted friends.” “But where did this Irish woman find him? Of course, he had parents?” questioned the widow, breathlessly. “I think he was an orphan.” “Well, but where did she find him?” Catharine grew very pale, but she answered quietly,— “In Bellevue Hospital, I believe.” The widow drew a deep breath. She looked anxiously from little Edward to her visitor, attempted to speak, and desisted again, as if afraid of saying too much. “And his mother? Oh, for mercy’s sake, if you know anything of his mother, tell me about her?” “I know nothing,” answered Catharine, with sudden reserve. “How should I?” “Not even the mother’s name? Only tell me that, and I will pray for you—bless you forever!” There was so much anxiety, something so eager in her voice and manner, that Catharine was deeply touched. “I only know her Christian name, certainly,” she answered. “Yes, yes, and that was——” Mrs. Oakley broke off, checking herself suddenly in her interrogations. “That was Louisa, I am sure it was Louisa; as for the rest, I have no certainty.” “But you heard other names?” “Yes, several.” “Tell me, pray do—what other names did you hear?” “One name was Barton; the other——” Catharine stopped abruptly, and her face grew pallid. “Well, that other. I do not recognize this.” “The other,” said Catharine, looking sadly into the anxious face turned upon her, “the other was your own name—Oakley.” CHAPTER LXVIII. DOUBTS AND FEARS.