And the old people were content. For they saw that the revelation they had made opened new springs of affection in the young woman’s bosom; that her former care of Elsie became devotion now; that a new power of love followed every look and word, which the poor demented one uttered. Still, these pure souls did not entirely read that young heart; they could not hear the words, “his mother,” which always trembled, unspoken, on her lips, when she looked at Elsie. They could not understand the tender light, that forever brooded in her eyes, nor feel the thrill that ran through her nerves, at the touch of their caressing hands, or the glances of Elsie’s midnight eyes. It was enough for her that their blood ran through his veins; that Elsie, poor insane Elsie, was his own mother. These thoughts and feelings were uppermost for some days. Catharine would not reflect that the man, whose unknown relatives were so dear to her, had abandoned her to poverty and death; that he had never inquired about her fate at the hospital, or if so, had avoided seeking her out. She would not remember that this man was, even now, about to unite himself to another, whom he had vainly loved before, taking compassion on her perhaps too evident affection. Above all, her pure soul revolted at the thought that another of his victims had perished by her own couch of pain, and that his child was left to wander alone, into any shelter that Providence might provide for the orphan. But the heart cannot always silence a clear understanding. After a time, Catharine began to feel that a poison still lay in the cup of peace, so unexpectedly presented to her. Again her step grew slow, and her eyes sad. The love with which she regarded the household was full of yearning pain. She had lost all power to unite her thoughts of George De Marke with these good old people. He was all a De Marke, the son of that domestic traitor, the evil of his nature was an inheritance. That man had nothing in common with the Fords; the blood might be in his veins; but it was poisoned, every drop, by that of the De Markes. Catharine rejoiced that Mrs. Oakley had been informed, regarding the falsehood of De Marke, without her agency. It seemed to her impossible to speak of his faults to any one. His treason to herself was so deeply buried in the depths of her heart, that it would be death to drag the secret forth, even to prevent further wrong. She thanked God again and again, that this terrible duty had been spared her. The very thoughts of appearing as his accuser, filled her with dismay.