Bitter indeed was the resentment and disappointment of Catherine, as she listened to what Mary had said. She had not suspected that matters were so bad as this. She clearly saw that her pupil had definitely deserted the Cause--that she had become a Christian. But she noticed the girl's condition. She saw it was impossible to discuss the question further then, so said, in as collected a manner as her conflicting emotions allowed: "I must leave you now--good-bye, Mary, good-bye. I will write to you--I must think about all this. I don't know what to say now." She kissed the girl, rather coldly this time, and turned to go. Mary stood quite motionless during the embrace, as if in a state of unconsciousness. But after Catherine had gone a few yards across the lawn, the girl awoke suddenly from her stupefaction. She took two or three rapid steps in the direction of the retreating figure, then feeling her strength fail her she stood still, and stretching out her arms, shrieked out, "Stop! stop! stop!" Catherine was startled by the wildness of the cry, and turned round and looked at her. "Stop!" once more cried the girl with fierce energy as she approached the woman. "You _shall_ know before you go--I _do_ love him--not Mr. Hudson--but another--Dr. Duncan!" It had come at last. Catherine strode up to her and grasped her by the arm. "Do I hear you aright? You tell me _that_--you love him?" she exclaimed savagely. Mary gave one low wail and fell fainting to the ground. One of the little children who was at the other end of the lawn saw her fall, and ran indoors to tell her mother. Mrs. White was soon on the spot. She found Mary lying insensible on the grass, and standing by her, deadly pale, with her fists clenched, and a fierce glare in her eyes, Catherine King. "What was the cause of this?" asked the little woman, as she administered restoratives to the girl. Catherine made no reply. The Fury of despairing jealousy had possessed the woman; she scarcely knew where she was, in the first burst of her mad anger; but after a few moments she recollected herself, and said in a hard voice that concealed every emotion: "My presence seems to do her harm. I will go away. Good-bye, Mrs. White; I see the fly has arrived," then abruptly, without another word, she walked out of the cottage gate and was driven off. She never so much as once turned her head to look at the insensible girl. Mrs. White was intensely amazed. "And this," she thought, "is the aunt Mary describes as having so much affection for her!" The White Knight had indeed considerably foiled Catherine King's scheme. It even looked as if he would checkmate her soon. CHAPTER XXI. CONDEMNED TO DEATH. It was evening, in Mrs. King's parlour in Maida Vale. Darkness had set in, but the wretched woman who was sitting over the neglected and nearly extinct fire, alone with her gloomy thoughts, did not rise to light the lamp.