“Send for him. Send De Marke hither at once,” almost shrieked the bride, as she stood up with an effort at firmness, but trembling from head to foot. “To his face, you must make this charge. Call De Marke, I say!” The maid went out, leaving the group petrified into silence, waiting like so many ghosts. They had not long to wait for the bridegroom. He came with a light step, in full dress, and with one glove in his hand; a flush of supreme happiness was on his face. He could not speak without smiling. “Is it time?” he said, pausing at the door, in not ungraceful confusion, as he saw that it was a dressing-room to which he had been summoned. But the silence, and the pale faces turned upon him, drove the blush and smile instantly away. He stepped hastily forward. “What is this? You are pale, you tremble. Great heavens, what has happened? Is she ill?” He looked first at Mrs. Oakley, then at her mother, repeating, “Is she ill—is she ill?” Mrs. Oakley, without removing the left hand from her heart, pointed toward Catharine, who stood, pale and motionless, with her eyes fixed on his face. “Look on that woman, and say if she is known to you.” De Marke turned and looked in Catharine’s face. His glance was firm and searching, his countenance agitated, but truthful as noonday. “No,” he said, “I haven’t the slightest recollection of this lady; yet—yet there is something in her face—” “Then you know her—it is true—mother, mother!” The bride staggered back, clinging to Mrs. Judson, who stood in her place, firm and cold as a statue. “No, I did not say that—there was something in the eyes; but it is gone—certainly I have never seen this lady before!” Catharine uttered a low moan, and moving toward him, put the hair back from her temples with both hands, exposing her beautiful but deathly features to his entire scrutiny. He looked at her with a glance as cold as ice; that look fell upon her like a blight; she reeled, a mist swum before her eyes, and she could not discern a feature of the face to which her own was so pathetically uplifted. Not a word did those white lips utter. She stood before him, mute and trembling, till the young man turned away, pained and almost angry. Then all the strength left that poor wife, and she fell forward upon her knees. “Explain this scene, if you can, madam,” said the young man, motioning Catharine away with his hand, while he turned to Mrs. Judson. Before the lady could answer, Catharine held up one hand, with a paper quivering like a dead leaf between the fingers. “Look at me! look at me! I am Catharine. Forgive me. They would not let me die—forgive me; but I am Catharine Lacy.” De Marke snatched the paper from her hand, read it at a glance, and with an exclamation of “thank God—oh! thank God,” uttered as it were in a flood of joy, lifted Catharine from his feet, and kissed her upon the forehead, again and again.