“Oh, she is one of the dearest creatures in the world, a sort of protégé, or adopted daughter of Mrs. Ford’s, up at the old stone house, yonder. Don’t be impatient, she will be in time.” Mrs. Judson shook her head very pleasantly, for she was in high good humor that day. “Ah! I understand; some young girl, without advantages, that you want to bring out. One of these days you will see how foolish such things are.” Mrs. Oakley was about to offer some good-natured protest. But as she turned to speak, they both heard a slight commotion in the upper hall. CHAPTER LXXVI. RIGHTED AT LAST. “Here she comes!” exclaimed the bride, opening the door. “Ah, I was sure of it! Come in! come in! How late you are; fortunately your dress is all laid out.” Mrs. Oakley held out her hand cordially. Catharine did not touch it, but with a gentle inclination of the head, entered the chamber followed by old Mrs. Ford. Mrs. Oakley drew back, surprised and almost offended; for, standing in the hall, directly behind the old lady, she saw a white-haired gentleman, leaning upon his cane, as if waiting for something. “Of course, I am delighted to see your friends. They have given me a pleasant surprise. I scarcely hoped—” Mrs. Oakley stopped suddenly. She had caught a glimpse of Catharine’s white face, and drew slowly back, terrified by its expression. Catharine was clothed in strange beauty that evening. A painful wildness glittered in her eyes, her lips were like marble, and her cheeks looked cold as snow. She had no bonnet on, but a scarlet shawl had been hastily flung over her dress of black silk, a costume that contrasted vividly with the snow of Mrs. Oakley’s bridal apparel. “What is this? Why have you come in a black dress, and with that mournful face?” she questioned, while Mrs. Judson drew proudly up, first in resentful astonishment, then with a slow dawning of memory, that left her pale and aghast, but still haughtily upright. “I have come,” said Catharine, in a low, pained voice, “I have come, because it must be. Not to share your joy, but to quench it. Not to witness your marriage, for the man who waits for you—I would soften these words, if I knew how, but it must be said—is my own husband.” For a moment there was a dead silence in the room. Every face was white, and every person dumb with amazement. “I wish,” said Catharine, “this duty had been spared me. I struggled and prayed to cast it off. The wreck of one heart was enough. I would not have waited so long, or have spoken now, but that silence would become guilt.” “This is not true!” exclaimed the bride, pressing a hand to her heart, that trembled and throbbed till the cloud of lace that fell over it shook with the agony. “I tell you the thing is impossible!” “I wish it were. The God of heaven is my judge, that I do not wound you, or him, willingly. But it is a miserable duty, which I cannot escape.”