There was a new servant in Mrs. Townsend Oakley’s household; a large-featured, energetic person, whom the housekeeper had engaged in town as a chambermaid. This woman was busy in the west room, when Catharine entered Mrs. Oakley’s parlor, and though occupied, she kept a vigilant watch on all that was passing between the two young women. She saw Catharine draw the boy toward her, and remarked the look of agitation which could not be misunderstood, on discovering the cross upon his temple. The distance prevented her hearing any words, but as she fixed her scrutiny upon the various faces of that little group, a gleam of sharp intelligence shot from her eyes, she softly laid down her duster, and keeping out of sight in the movement, crept stealthily behind the half-open door. Now she could hear their voices, low and troubled, but still distinct to her keen ear. “She is right, my mother is right,” said Mrs. Oakley, wringing her delicate hands in an abandon of grief. “How dare he? How could he enter my house? How could I—oh! weak, weak wretch that I am!” “Of whom do you speak?” said Catharine, pale as death, and shivering till her teeth chattered. “Of De Marke,—of that boy’s father!” “And what of him?” The voice in which this question was asked had grown so husky, that the listener could scarcely hear it. “Listen to me,” was the answer. “I have no human being, except yourself, from whom it is possible for me to seek advice: and my position is a terrible one. You are not like a stranger to me, I can trust you.” “Yes, you may trust me,” said Catharine, in a low, firm voice, “I will deal honestly by you.” “Look at this boy. Is he not beautiful? His eyes, his mouth, his every movement, can anything be more frank?” “He is lovely. No angel could be more innocent.” “And yet that boy’s father, his own father, remember! with a brow as open, an eye as frank, a lip always smiling, that boy’s father is—oh! my God that I should live to say it—is a traitor—a—a—” The poor lady broke off, closing the last words in bitter sobs. Her clasped hands unlocked, and she buried her face in them, trembling from head to foot, and weeping bitterly. “You may wrong him,” said Catharine, faintly. “No, it is all too clear,” answered Mrs. Oakley, shaking her head mournfully; “his mother was poor Oakley’s sister. You saw her, she called herself by his name; it was Oakley, not De Marke, that she called herself; are you sure of that? Oh! it would be something to believe that he married her.” Catharine stood by a sofa. She sunk slowly down among the cushions, breathless and aghast. “You are certain that she did not call herself by his name. Oh! try and remember.” “No, no, I never heard her claim that name,” fell in cold, measured words from Catharine Lacy, as she sat there stunned and immovable, as if suddenly frozen into stillness.