“I would follow him to the uttermost ends of the earth, as a true wife should follow the man she loves.” “Would you, my dear? But that is just what the young fellow does not want. He has left you, girl, and I tell you he will never return, never, never, do you hear?” “I do not believe it. Sooner or later he will come back to contradict this wicked slander. He is _not_ a bad man!” “Just as you please to think, my dear; only he is a long time in coming!” Catharine gave a quick motion of the hand, as if to silence the slander, and turning upon the old woman, demanded if she would give her shelter and protection? “No, no, my dear, the thing is just impossible,” answered the old creature, with jeering malice in her look and voice; “that would be owning to the world that I gave some faith to your romance about Philadelphia, the clergyman, and all that.” “I am almost glad of it,” answered Catharine, conscious that a sensation of unaccountable relief went with her words. “Now I have nothing but God to trust in; all his creatures have forsaken me.” “Oh!” ejaculated the old woman, kissing her crucifix, “what has God, or the mother of God, to do with heretics but to punish their sins? Go away, dear, go away.” “I will,” was the sad reply. “You send me out among men like a wild bird into the woods, but God takes care even of them.” “That’s a nice girl, you’ll go into the country away west or east, where no one will ever hear of you again. Don’t come back to disgrace the poor boy, and I’ll pay your passage in the emigrant cars just as far as you will go. Only let it be a long way off, and remember, dear, how much it will cost me.” “No,” answered Catharine, “I cannot leave the city till he comes back.” “I tell you he never will come back, never! You hear me, never! never!” Catharine turned very white, and clenched her little hand hard on the back of a chair. “How do you know this, madam?” she questioned, in a faint voice. “He told me so himself, dear; depend on it, he never will come back, and never can marry you; it would make him a beggar.” “Why?” “Why, darling? because his father just left it in his will that his son should never marry without my consent; if he did, all the property should come to me. So, my dear, you understand how it would turn out if you were really married; he would be a beggar, and I rolling in gold—rolling in gold. Oh, if you only had been married, now wouldn’t it have been a run of luck for me? But he won’t do it—not fool enough for that—never thought of such a thing.” “Do you mean to say that George has practised a deception on me?” “Oh, a little cheat, nothing else, of course you understand all about it; the certificate that you made so much of, all fudge and nonsense. Just go away, darling, as I tell you; he’ll never come back till you do, and never then, I dare say.”