Catharine arose from her knees, for she had unconsciously fallen at Mrs. Ford’s feet, with a deeper breath and more glowing countenance than she had worn for years. No explanation had yet been offered by the old people; but she felt certain that some unseen link of union existed between her fate and theirs, and without speaking, she gazed wistfully in their faces, waiting for light. “Yes,” said the old man, fervently, “it is true. God does sometimes send angels to us unawares. Catharine, my child, it is your husband’s mother to whom you have given up the bloom and strength of your young life. The father of George De Marke married Elsie Ford, our daughter.” “And you—and you?” cried Catharine, eagerly. “Are his grandfather—” “And Madame de Marke?” “Hush! do not mention her name; it is an accursed sound under this roof,” answered the old man, almost sternly. Catharine sat down, silenced, but still keenly anxious. The old gentleman seated himself also, close by his wife, who regarded him with a look, half frightened, half sorrowful. “Tell her,” said the old man, in a low voice, “women understand each other best.” “I cannot. See how I shake.” The old man took the hand held toward him in both of his, smoothing and caressing it with gentle tenderness. “You can witness,” he said, addressing Catharine, “how great this sorrow has been. She cannot bear to speak of it. For years we have been silent, even with each other.” “I see,” answered Catharine, looking wistfully at the old lady, and following her own thoughts. “His grandmother! That is why she seemed so lovely from the first—_his_ grandmother, and _his_ mother, oh! how I have been unconsciously blessed.” “Elsie,” said the old man, looking anxiously at his wife, as if afraid that her strength would give way, “Elsie was our only child. You see her now, a poor, brain-crazed old woman; gray-headed and broken-hearted; but then she was—” “Oh!” broke in the old lady, with her eyes full of tears, that dimmed the glasses of her spectacles like a frost, “she was the dearest, the brightest, the most beautiful creature that ever trod the green grass. You don’t know—you can’t tell, how many sweet, wild ways she had, and all straight to the heart. He didn’t merely love her, nor did I; it was worship in us both; we idolized this child; there was not a curl of her black hair, or a glance of her eyes, bright and brimfull of feeling as they always were, which was not lovely beyond all things to us.