"Is that so?" cried Catherine eagerly, clutching tightly the girl's arm. "Is that so? Oh, I am so glad, Mary! If I had only known this all these miserable weeks!--Oh, my darling, my darling, I have been so unjust to you all this time! I believed that you loved this man, and I thought it was so cruel, so wicked of you to keep this from me. I began to hate you, Mary--ah! if you knew what I suffered all those sleepless nights thinking how all that care and love of mine had been wasted on you. And now to find I was wrong! Forgive me for suspecting you--Forgive me, my darling! Oh! it nearly killed me when I discovered, as I thought, that you loved him. I could have killed you, I hated you so. It was only after I heard he was dead that I began to relent, and I did not forgive you even then. No! not till I saw your poor, thin face in the hospital, and I could hate you no longer. Oh, my darling--you have made me so happy! Will you forgive me?" A man who has had a serious quarrel with the woman he loves, and finds that he was in the wrong, that he has behaved unjustly, could not have shown a more passionate tenderness over the reconciliation than did this strange woman. She was carried away by her joy; she looked pleadingly into the girl's eyes as she seized her hands and begged for her forgiveness. Mary shrunk back from her. She was shocked and frightened at this unwonted display of profound affection. She felt sick with shame and sorrow, for she knew she did not deserve all this love; she knew that when she told her story, all the woman's triumphant happiness would change again to a bitterer misery and hate than ever. How to tell her kind protectress that she had deceived her--that she did love--though not Hudson, and that this was a live love, not a dead one! She could never be forgiven for that. She would be spurned--hated; and she sobbed as she buried her head in her hands, not daring to show her guilty face. But she determined to deceive her no longer, so throwing herself at Catherine's feet, she exclaimed wildly, "Oh, mother! mother! you are killing me; don't talk about forgiving _me_! don't love me any longer! don't speak to me kindly. I am a wicked bad girl and unworthy of your love, indeed I am." "These people have been spoiling Mary with their religion and sentimental nonsense," thought Catherine as she observed the girl. "She has been brought round to feel a horror for our work. She wishes to be absolved from her duty, and she is afraid of my anger if she asks me to free her." Then she said aloud, "Mary, dear, I know all; but don't worry about that now. You have come to feel a horror of the work we have to do. You are weak, but I cannot blame you, poor girl. You wish to leave us, to be free. We will see what can be done. For the present do not worry at all about the matter."