With all her gentleness and delicacy, Catharine had become precocious in many things. She had many firm and settled thoughts beyond her years. Suffering had done a holy work with that young soul, and while the dews of first youth were on her nature, she was rich in pure womanly principle. She felt that it was wrong to remain a burden on her poor friends. Yet when she thought of going, a pang smote her, and it seemed as if her young heart must be uprooted afresh before she could give the child up. Poor, motherless girl, and childless mother! She was not yet eighteen, and so delicate that it seemed as if a blast of air might prostrate her. Two weeks passed in comparative tranquillity. No one inquired after Catharine; and she might have been dead for all her former friends knew or cared about the matter. Her aunt believed her to be with Madame De Marke, and that wicked old woman neither asked, nor cared, what had befallen her. One morning, before Mary Margaret went out to her day’s work, Catharine spoke of her determination to find employment for herself. At first, the kind woman objected, but her good sense directly came into action, and she saw how impossible it was that a creature so superior should be long content with a life in her humble abode. But what could Catharine do? She understood a little of millinery and ornamental needle-work, but well she knew the precariousness of resources like these to a homeless female. One thing was certain, she must henceforth depend on herself. Her relatives had forsaken her. The husband whom she had so fatally trusted was gone, she knew not whither—gone, she had been told, to avoid her, and to cast off the responsibilities which were to burden her so fatally. This was the bitter drop in Catharine’s cup. This was the arrow that pierced her, wherever she turned. She could not entirely believe evil of the man she had loved, but her soul was troubled with a doubt more painful than certainty. Still, something must be done. She could not remain there, a helpless burden upon the industry of others. Mary Margaret entered into her feelings with prompt tact. But what step could be taken? With no one to recommend her, scarcely possessed of decent clothes to wear, without the power to explain the miseries of her condition, who would receive her? These considerations daunted even Mary Margaret, but at last a bright idea seized upon the good woman; she began to see her way out of the difficulty. “There are societies,” she said, “in New York, with oceans of money, just got up for the purpose of helping innocent crathurs when the world casts them adrift. What if Catharine applied to one of these societies? The directors were all ladies that would, of course, have feeling for their fellow-creatures.” Margaret had seen their names in the papers, and that was a crown of glory in her estimation.