Left to her solitude, Mrs. Oakley gave way to all the tumult of her feelings again. The certainty of her lover’s treason had been cruelly confirmed, and the thoughts of his enormous turpitude pressed back upon her with double force. The presence of that pretty, tearful child was for a time irksome; and in the storm of her grief she escaped from his touching attempts to comfort her, and fled to her own room. After Catharine was gone, the new servant came out from her concealment and went up to little Edward, who sat crying upon the floor. She stooped over him, lifted the hair from his temple, and examined the cruciform mark with keen scrutiny. Then she returned slowly to her work, muttering uneasily between the flourishes of her duster. “Catharine, Catharine—the name is Catharine, that’s certain; as for the surname being different, that amounts to nothing—don’t I know how easy it is to change names? Why, haven’t I half a dozen to pick and choose from myself? There is something in the face and the bend of the head that I could tell among a thousand. Now I just as much believe she’s the woman, and that’s the very child, as I sit here; as for him, why the thing’s certain, but the other isn’t so easily settled.” Muttering these words, she sat down, folded her hands over the duster, and continued her ruminations. “Then there was the story of that queer old woman coming to the Island, and the crazy woman up yonder following her into the very water; this has something to do with the matter, I dare say. De Marke? oh! ha? that is the man who comes courting the widow. _Her_ son! Now I have it. _She_ was the old woman with the comical bonnet, that was driven into the sea,—of course, of course, wasn’t she lame, hadn’t she been hurt someway when I found her in bed half starved to death. But what has she to do with that crazy woman, with the fiery black eyes?—I’ll ravel it out, you may believe me; I’ll ravel it out; child, old woman, and all, they’re mixed up in the same heap. Never fear, I’ll be at the bottom of it yet.” CHAPTER LXIX. MADAME DE MARKE’s DEATH-BED. Madame de Marke lay alone in her den, more emaciated and weaker by far than she was when Jane Kelly abandoned her. For a little time she had found strength to creep about and procure food for herself, but some new injury to her bruised limb had followed the exertion, and she was cast back into her miserable bed more desolate than before. Day by day the inflammation burned and burrowed into her wounded limb, and all night long the poor woman lay muttering and raving for something to moisten her hot lips, “Water, water, water.” This was her plaint night and morning. With gold and jewels concealed in the crevices and hiding-places all around her, she lay like the rich man in torment, calling for a drop of water, which even the beggar obtains without stint, but for which she was calling always in vain.