But she avoided Mrs. Oakley. A feeling of vague pain, half jealousy, half compassion, kept her away from the cottage. More than this, she shrunk from looking at the child again. His child and not hers. Poor, poor Catharine! In every way how wickedly she had been wronged, how cruelly bereaved! No wonder she shrunk from looking on the handsome widow, his beloved, and the beautiful boy, his son. Her husband, yes! he was her husband, though she might never have the power to prove it. Thus Catharine avoided the cottage and the sea-shore, and her walks all turned to an opposite direction. She shrunk even from looking toward the house. Thus weeks went on, and the two families never met. The widow was too happy for any thought of her neighbors, and after seeking Catharine in her usual haunts awhile, always in vain, she went up to her mother’s house in town; for her wedding-day had been privately fixed, and there were papers to sign and bridal garments to order. One day, a servant-woman from Mrs. Oakley’s house came abruptly up to where Catharine was standing, and told her this, in a blunt, rude way, that brought a sudden cry from the poor girl, thus taken by surprise. The woman looked at her keenly, and a strange smile broke over her face, as she heard this cry. “I thought so,” she muttered, turning away abruptly, as she had advanced, “I knew it, now we’ll see.” Catharine followed her. “When, when does this take place?” she said, pale and wild, like one who had suddenly received sentence of death. “To-night. A crowd of guests came with them in a steamer hired expressly for the wedding-party. Mrs. Townsend Oakley sent particular word that you were to be invited to meet them. Of course you will come?” Catharine parted her pale lips to speak, but could not utter a word. “She wishes you to stand bridesmaid, and be at the cottage when they arrive. As her best friend, she hopes you will receive them, and see that the servants make no blunders.” “Me, me!” burst from Catharine’s lips, in a cry of such agony, that the woman stepped back with a startled look, which soon passed away, however, and that gleam of singular intelligence again resumed its place. “Me her bridesmaid!” “You will certainly come. The mistress depends upon it,” she said, without appearing to heed the cry. “I cannot. Oh, my God! I cannot do it. This is too much—too much! I shall drop dead under torture!” A look of rude compassion came to the woman’s face. She drew close to Catharine, and touched her on the arm. “You must be there, or the thing will go on!” “What thing, woman?” “The marriage of my mistress, Mrs. Townsend Oakley, with another woman’s husband—that is the thing!” Catharine looked at the woman in affright. “What! what do you know?” “I know that much, at any rate.” “How—where—when? In the name of heaven, what are you?” “Mrs. Townsend Oakley’s servant,—nothing else.” “But you said something that seems wild. How do you know—”