“What, what is it you ask? You,”—the words dropped, half-formed, from her lips; and she gave a scared look at the door, as if preparing to escape. “Don’t! oh, don’t refuse to speak,” pleaded Catharine. “I must know; my heart will break if I am left in this terrible darkness. What connection has your daughter with the De Marke family?” “De Marke—De Marke—who ever mentioned the name in this house?” said old Mr. Ford, who entered at the moment. Catharine turned to him. “It is I. Tell me, I beseech you, what have the De Markes done, that the name should drive the blood from your faces? Why did the portrait of a De Marke hang up in your library? How, and why has it disappeared? I ask these things, because it is impossible to live in such darkness. My own life, and all its hopes are at stake. What brought that wicked old woman here? I must know, or become mad by the side of our poor Elsie!” The old people exchanged glances. Both were pale, but a look of gentle commiseration settled upon their features. “This is no idle question, Catharine,” said the old man, gently, but with a quiver of the voice, “you would not wound us so from mere curiosity.” “Not for my life. I must know all this hidden history, to see the path that I ought to tread. I am weak and blinded—alone, with no one but God to help me. Tell me the history of your daughter, tell me why the name of De Marke makes you tremble. Is it fatal to others as it has been to me?” “You,” said the old man in surprise, “you!” “Even so, Mr. Ford. I was married to a De Marke, and he is still living.” The old lady arose, with an air of timid repulsion, and would have left the room; but her husband gently waved her back. “She suffers; she, too, is a victim, perhaps another Elsie,” he said, compassionately. “Now, my child, come hither; sit down by the mother and tell her all.” Catharine sat down, still supported by nervous excitement, and laid her heart and her life open before those pure-minded old people. It was astonishing how little time it took to relate events and agonies that had been so long in the acting. She concealed nothing. From the very depths of her soul she drew forth the secrets that had been hoarded there, corroding and wounding all her faculties, and laid them honestly down before those kindly judges. The old people listened, sometimes sadly, sometimes with broken exclamations. Once or twice glances of surprise, almost of affright, passed between them. When she had finished, the old lady bent down, with tears in her eyes, and kissed her, while the husband stood over them, and lifting his hands to heaven, thanked God that she had been cast beneath his roof.