“Peg! Peg!” she cried, in a voice that was sharp with spite, yet shook with terror,—“Peg, it’s a man! do you see? If he breaks in, leap on him and scratch his eyes out. Do you hear? tear him to pieces, Peg!” The door was slightly shaken, at which the cat arched her back and made ready for a spring. Again the door was tried, and a knock followed. Peg gathered herself up, and gave out a sharp hiss, which mingled with the shrill voice of the old woman, as the latter called out: “Who’s there? What do you want? You can’t come in here. I’m a lone woman, and poor, very poor. Go away, I tell you!” “Open the door, madame,” answered a man’s voice, “open the door. It is your husband’s son!” “What? what? Peg, do you hear that? Hush!” “Open the door, Madame De Marke. I must speak with you. Surely you recognize my voice.” “Yes, yes,” answered the old woman, sharply, and looking around the room as if she feared there might be something that required concealment. “Yes, in a minute. Wait while I find the key.” CHAPTER XXXI. THE YOUNG MAN’S RETURN. Directly Madame De Marke unlocked the door, and a tall young man of stately presence and a grave cast of countenance entered. He reached forth his hand, with a sort of painful reservation, toward the singular old creature whom he found there. “So, it is you at last!” said the latter, in a soft, cajoling voice. “I began to think you had forgotten your poor old mother.” “Forgotten you! No, no, that were impossible,” was the hasty reply. “But you are alone, you seem to be living quite alone. Where is Catharine?” “Catharine? Oh, yes, the girl. She hasn’t been here this year or more. A hard case that, George.” He started, and looked at her sternly. “What do you mean, madame?” he said. “Where, I say, where is Catharine? I left her with you! I demand her of you again.” “You left her with me, of course you did. Wasn’t she my own help, bound to me till she was eighteen by the city authorities? Of course you left her here, why not?” The young man grew pale, and his eyes darkened with intense anxiety; but he restrained his impetuous feelings, and spoke in a voice so low, that it was almost a whisper. “Tell me, I entreat, madame, where is this girl now?” “How should I know? She ran away after you sailed.” “Ran away? where? Where?” “You needn’t ask me. How should I know? What carries a wild girl into the streets?” “The streets!” cried the young man, in a husky whisper. “The streets!” “I believe,” said the old woman, unfeelingly, “she brought up at the prison or Almshouse, at last.” “Prison! Almshouse! Madame, woman, how dare you confess that she was so far deserted, the poor, poor girl. Was she ill? Was she wronged? Tell me why this destitution fell upon her!”