“If I were unworthy, would you be likely to learn it from my own lips? But I will not refuse; it may be necessary. I was born in the city.” “What is your name? Who are your relatives? How came you here?” Catharine turned deathly pale and trembled. For the first time in her life she came near assuming her husband’s name. It was an act of disobedience, for, until his return, he had forbidden this; but she shrunk from her own name as if it were a disgrace; it seemed to her that every one must know that she was a childless mother. She hesitated, her color came and went, the fear of disgrace struggled hard against her natural dread of assuming her husband’s name unauthorized. At last her resolution was taken. She would risk everything rather than disobey the man whom she had loved and trusted so entirely. He might be false to her, but she would still hold firm to her promise—never till he came back would she take his name. CHAPTER XXVII. A CHARITABLE CROSS-EXAMINATION. While Catharine reflected, that woman’s cold eyes were upon her, passionless and steady as if she quietly enjoyed the crimson as it flushed and paled on her face. At last Catharine gave her maiden name, but it was in a low, faltering voice, and with a sharp struggle to keep the tears from her eyes. “You are single, of course?” questioned the woman, suspiciously eying her from head to foot. “No, I have been married.” “And is this your husband’s name?” Catharine clasped her hands so tightly, that the blood left them even to the rounded nails. She looked at Mary Margaret and at her cold, hard questioner, as if she would have asked pity even with those eyes upon her. “No,” she answered, at last, “it is not his name; I have never borne it.” “Why?” “We were married privately, and without his mother’s consent.” “I thought so—I was sure of it,” exclaimed the woman, softly, caressing her hands again, as if they had detected the wrong in this young girl’s character, and she was assuring them of her approbation. “And so you were married privately, without his mother’s consent, and without certificate, I dare say?” “No, I had a certificate,” replied Catharine, with tears of shame and anger in her eyes. “I had a certificate, but it is gone—lost or stolen, I suppose.” “Lost or stolen—where?” “At the hospital, when I was sick.” “Oh! ha. So you have been in the institution. I thought so—I thought so!” cried the woman, with cold exultation. “In what ward did they place you?” Catharine did not shrink or tremble now. There was nothing in the remembrance of her maternal anguish and bereavement, to burn her cheek with shame, though it might be blanched with sorrow. She answered firmly, but in a low voice,— “I was a wife, and they put me among those who had become mothers in their poverty.”