“I know this woman!” said Catharine, gently; “she is indeed punished through the degradation of her own nature. But the son? Did Elsie never see her son?” “Poor Elsie! She would not have known him. For many years we were compelled to keep her in the asylum, from whence she was removed to the care of Mrs. Barr. I believe that De Marke thought her dead, for until the day that miserable woman appeared at the library window, we never saw either of them.” “And you have never seen her son?” “He has never inquired after his mother—nor attempted to open any communication with us. He may even be dead.” “Is it not possible that he may have been brought up in ignorance of these facts? I almost think so,” said Catharine. “I do not know—and poor Elsie, what good would it be to her? She has forgotten everything.” As he spoke, the old man arose, and walked into an inner room, closing the door after him. Catharine looked around, and saw that Mrs. Ford had disappeared also; indeed, the dear old lady had stolen away in the early part of this conversation, overcome by the mournful reminiscences it brought upon her. When she found herself quite alone, Catharine gave way to a storm of feeling that shook her to the soul. She walked up and down the room, murmuring to herself, linking and unlinking her fingers, brushing back the hair from her hot temples, and tossing her arms upward, as if the room were too small for such emotions. She seemed, for the time, almost as wild as her charge. While in this state of excitement, she saw Elsie moving across the lawn, and struck by a sudden glow of affection, ran out to meet her. “Mother! mother, his mother,” she cried, throwing herself on Elsie’s bosom. “His mother, his mother, and mine. Oh, thank God, thank God, that he sent me here!” Elsie looked down upon that glowing face, with a sweet, vacant smile, and began to sing a lullaby, such as had sent her lost infant to sleep. With a heavy sigh, Catharine arose from that unconscious bosom, and wandered away down to the sea-shore, where she could think and resolve in solitude. CHAPTER LXXIV. ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE WEDDING. The revelations, in the last chapter, were a source of new-born peace to Catharine. She felt at home, for the first time in her life. A few words had knitted her forever to those good old people, who had been so long her friends. Grandfather—grandmother—his, and consequently hers. She repeated this in the depths of her heart a thousand times; she would sit, for minutes together, regarding them with looks of unutterable tenderness. Her heart would leap at the sound of their voices, and when they spoke to her more confidingly than heretofore, for in the fulness of their confidence this was natural, her eyes would fill with gentle thankfulness. Still, she told them nothing, but asked for a little time, only a little; and then her heart should be laid open as theirs had been.