“That Mr. De Marke is a married man—is that what you ask?” “Yes, that is what I ask!” answered Catharine, in a strained, husky voice. “How do you know it?” said the woman. “Me—me—how do I know it. God help me—how do I know it. I—” “You see that I do know it, and that I know you, Catharine Lacy.” Catharine staggered back, warding the woman off with her hands, as she drew closer to her. “That name, why do you call me by that name? I do not bear it. I will not hear it—I tell you, woman, it is not my name.” “Right,” answered the woman, smiling shrewdly, “it is not your name.” “Well then, if it is not my name, why torment me with it? What does Mrs. Oakley want of me? I am not her friend. No one is my friend. I am alone, quite, quite, alone!” “I am your friend.” “You, and tell me news like this?” “You wish to prevent this wedding.” “No, no; I wish nothing, I hope nothing. I have a hard duty that will torture me, that is all.” “But you _must_ prevent it.” “I must. Yes, I have known that all along. But how? Great heaven! direct me how.” “Tell them he has a wife already.” “A wife. What wife?” “Catharine Lacy, the name which is not yours.” “What do you say, woman? How is it you would have me act?” “Go down to the cottage, meet them as they desire, and when the clergyman calls upon those who know of a just cause, or impediment,—I believe that’s the way it runs,—step forward, and stand face to face with Catharine Lacy’s husband, and tell him that she lives.” Catharine wrung her hands distractedly. “I cannot, I should drop dead at their feet. How can I do this without proof?” “Is not your presence proof?” “No! I am changed. Even if they have ever known me, I could not prove an identity.” “Still you are his wife.” “I did not say it.” “Besides this—to help them on—they can prove that Catharine Lacy is dead by the hospital books. I know that well enough, though you may not,” said the woman, with a confidential air; “but what then?” “It would be sufficient proof against anything I could say, if that be true.” “But he would know you. True enough, your hair is a shade darker, you look taller and larger, your whole person is changed; but you have the old smile, and the same eyes. I knew you, why should not he?” “Oh, do not ask—he will not wish it.” “And you will see him marry another. This may be refinement, ma’am; but to my thinking, it’s taking part in the wickedness.” Catharine shrunk within herself, and her features grew pinched with sudden anguish. For a long time she remained silent, gazing wildly on the woman. At last her pale lips parted. “True, true. O my God, my God, guide me—guide me!” She sunk upon a fragment of rock, as these words broke forth, and buried her face in the drapery of her shawl. The woman stood over her, and said, “You see it must be done.” Catharine moaned faintly. “Or a great crime will lie at your door.” Again Catharine moaned. “This man deserves it all.”