“Marry him? no! To act is within my own control—to feel is, alas! what I cannot help.” That moment, the little boy came across the room, his bright eyes full of tears. Holding up both hands, he strove to throw them around Mrs. Oakley’s neck. She drew back with a repulsive motion of her hand. His arms dropped, the rosy lips quivered, and sitting down upon the floor, he began to sob as if his heart were breaking. Both the women stood looking at him in pale silence. Suddenly their eyes filled, a simultaneous sob broke from their bosoms, and they sunk to the floor together, wreathing their arms around him and covering his face and brow with kisses. “He isn’t to blame, you know,” pleaded the widow. But Catharine had dropped her face upon her knees, and only answered with a keen shiver, as if she were in pain. Thus she remained some minutes, evidently struck with a pang of great suffering. “Are you ill?” inquired Mrs. Oakley, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Yes, I believe I am ill,” answered Catharine, standing up. “I will go home now.” “Not now. It is cruel, I know; but one word more. That letter mentioned another person, Catharine Lacy—did you know anything of her?” “Catharine Lacy, who should know anything of her? Is she not dead?” “Yes, I know there is a record of her death at the hospital; but I should be so grateful for some further knowledge of her. You will not wonder at this when I tell you that she was my own cousin.” “Your cousin, lady; and yet permitted to die there?” “It was not my fault, oh! believe it. I never even heard of her destitution.” “But your mother?” “Hush! It is not for me to arraign my mother!” “True, true.” “Tell me, I beseech you, something about this poor girl. It was another mournful death for which that man must one day answer.” “I can tell you nothing of Catharine Lacy. Her history is written out, they tell me, in the hospital books.” “I am sorry that you know so little regarding her,” said the widow, disappointed. “We loved each other as children; but I was always away at school, or somewhere, after that; and we never saw each other. Poor, poor Catharine, she was an angel-child.” “You loved her, then?” “Loved her? She was dearer than a sister to me. I would give anything, suffer anything to know that she was alive, or had died happy.” The widow’s eyes were full of tears, and a thousand regretful feelings trembled in her voice. “Oh! if you know anything about her, do tell me.” Catharine took the hand, held out to her, with a pathetic gesture, and kissed it, saying,— “God bless you!” The next moment she was gone. The widow and child saw her glide through the French window into the veranda, and disappear like a shadow, as she had entered the room.