“Perfectly happy. Remember, it was a long time ago, and he—but poor, poor girl, if he did not love her, he would always have been affectionate and kind.” “Did De Marke tell you that he did not love the girl whom he married and left? It was an unfeeling confession,” said Catharine, in a trembling voice. “It was necessary in order to explain everything. He gave me his whole heart. This is what makes me so happy—nothing is kept back. Remember, I was engaged to Mr. Oakley when he first saw me.” “And he married this other person, without love, merely from compassion, you say!” “I do not know; it seems hard to speak of the dead in a way that would wound them, if living; but I am quite sure that De Marke has loved me from the first. He says so, and I believe him, in spite of this rash marriage.” “I think so too!” answered Catharine, in a grave, cold voice. “Still he might remember how that poor, lone girl worshipped him.” “It is very sad, I am sure it must be very sad, to love any one whose heart is not all given back in return. The anguish which I have felt during these few days has been so terrible, that I can well pity those who suffer with like doubts.” “Can you? I think you are generous and good. Love like yours should be given to a worthy object.” “It is! it is! I would stake my life upon his goodness.” “And if it were yet proved otherwise?” said Catharine, turning her large eyes searchingly on the happy face of her companion. “I think—I know,” answered the widow, with a shudder, “that it would kill me—I could not live after all this happiness, to be cast back even into doubt again.” Catharine looked at her friend very mournfully for a moment. “We suffer a great deal without dying,” she said; moving slowly away, she joined Elsie and the child. CHAPTER LXXI. QUESTIONS AND CONFESSIONS. Catharine was alone with old Mrs. Ford. Excitement, and a wild sense of some mysteries which she had failed to fathom, made her bold. She plunged abruptly into a subject long upon her mind, but which she had never ventured to hint at before. Indeed, the quick crowding of painful thoughts, during the last few weeks, had rendered her desperate. “Mrs. Ford!” Catharine’s voice was so sharp and abrupt, that it made the old lady start and drop the sewing she was engaged on into her lap. “What is it?” she said, breathlessly; for her thoughts always turned to one object, “Elsie, is anything wrong with Elsie?” “Mrs. Ford, there is a thing I wish to ask, a thing which I must ask or die. Who is Elsie? Is her name Ford, was she ever married, has she a child?” Catharine spoke rapidly, almost wildly. Her eyes were keenly anxious, her manner desperate. Mrs. Ford sat silently gazing upon the speaker. Her face, always pale, grew white and cold; her little withered hands crept together and interlocked in her lap.