“A great many things may happen in two years, with the blessings of the saints, so don’t be getting down-hearted; there’s a God above all!” “I know it,” answered Catharine, gazing with sad tenderness on the child; “but it makes my heart ache to think what may become of this poor baby.” “There now, hand it over, and go to your bed with the childer; it’s gettin’ down in the mouth ye are, and all for not eatin’ a hearty male whin ye had it to the fore,” exclaimed Mary Margaret, depositing her offspring by its sleeping father, and reaching out her arms for the other child. “There, there, go yer ways now; just push the childer aisy a one side, an’ make yerself contint on half their straw bed on the floor, and a comfortable bed may ye find it.” Catharine arose to obey this hospitable command, but Mary Margaret called her back. “See here; isn’t it as like the holy cross now as two paes?” she said, putting the soft hair back from the baby’s temple, and revealing a crimson mark that really had a cruciform appearance, small and delicate as it was. “Isn’t he born to be a saint now!” exclaimed the Irish woman, exultingly. “Or a martyr, perhaps,” said Catharine; and she walked sadly into the little room pointed out by her hostess. CHAPTER XXV. SEEKING FOR HELP. Catharine was content in her new home. She had been so completely worn out with suffering and excitement, that any place, which insured quiet and rest, was a heaven to her. Besides, she found objects of interest in that humble shanty that won her thoughts quietly from her own grief. She was so young and naturally so hopeful, that anything calculated to arouse affection in her nature visited it with soft healing. The nurse’s child awoke her heart from its sorrow with a strange influence, thrilling and sweet. She would hold it fondly on her lap, smooth its silken hair with her fingers, kiss its soft lips, its sleepy eyes, and its plump little foot, with an outgush of tenderness that seemed more than motherly. With all her gratitude to Mary Margaret, she could not so caress and love her loud-voiced, hearty little boy. She could not even grieve over the loss of her own child, with that little creature lifting its soft, wondering eyes to her own so earnestly. Catharine loved to sit in the back door of the shanty—with the mock orange-vine and the morning-glories framing her in, as if she had been one of those golden-haired Madonnas that Guido loved to paint, creations that seem half air, half light—and caress the child, that was joy enough for her. Mary Margaret being out most of the day, Catharine was left to the healthful influences of these tender associations. She was still very pale, and her eyes were circled with shadows, like those that trembled upon the wall from the half-open morning-glories, but she began to feel less desolate, and as if neither God nor man had entirely forsaken her.