“Still he might have been married to her. It is possible,” said the widow, with all a woman’s generous faith in the man she loves, rising up afresh in her heart. “No!” answered Catharine, with the same cold measurement of words. “It is impossible. He could not have been her husband.” “Why, how do you know? How came you with a knowledge of him or his?” cried the widow, with a pang of jealous suspicion in her voice. “Remember, lady, I have spent many, many months in public institutions!” answered Catharine. “I know—I did not think. Forgive me, I am almost mad. Besides, you do not seem like that, so kind, so sweet and lady-like.” “You have made me your friend,—I feel for you. This is a fearful discovery. But tell me, how can I help you?” “Tell me all you know of this poor child’s mother. It may wound me to death, but I shall feel so restless till the worst is confirmed; then perhaps God will give me strength. Tell me all!” “I have, lady. She came to the hospital only a week or two before her death.” “And you saw her then?” “Yes; I can never, never forget her poor, mournful face, never, never.” Catharine bowed her head, and a shiver ran through her frame, while two or three tears forced themselves through the hands, which she pressed over her eyes. “Tell me more of her.” “There is nothing to tell. She seldom spoke, seldom lifted her great, mournful eyes from the floor. I heard her once call the names I have mentioned; but I think she was very ill then, and did not know what she was saying.” “Was it when she was dying?” “I don’t know. I remember seeing her dead, and carried out in her coffin; but that is all. Indeed, indeed, I can tell you no more.” Catharine’s voice grew sharp with the struggle of her anguish. These questions tortured her. Mrs. Oakley was terrified by the pale contractions of that face. Never had she witnessed anguish so terrific and so still. “And De Marke could leave her to die without a word—could do this, and with the guilt on his soul come here with protest—no, no, not with protestations—crafty and careful, he looked love, but never talked of it. I cannot point out a single word of affection, and yet there was love in every look, every tone of his voice. Oh! I cannot think of it with patience.” “And you know that this man loves you?” asked Catharine, a little hoarser than before. “Loves me? I never had a doubt of it till now—nay, I do not yet doubt it. He may be reckless, wicked, utterly unprincipled, but I _know_ he loves me; and oh! shame, shame, shame, I love him.” “You love him, knowing all this,” said Catharine, standing up. “It is my shame, and will be my misery forever and ever,” answered the widow, covering her face with both hands, while the hot crimson swept over her neck and forehead, like a fiery brand. “And would you marry him?” The voice, in which this was uttered, fell so cutting upon her ear, that the widow dropped her hands, looking suddenly up.