Then her reason, if reason it could be called, returned to her for a moment. She hardened her heart. Was not Mary a traitor to the cause? The safety of the Sisterhood, the success of this grand scheme, called for her death. She _must_ die. But yet, she thought, how was the poor child to blame for all this? Was it not her own cruel self--she, Catherine King--that had enticed Mary into the Secret Society, and led her into danger? But she smothered these fancies--steeled herself for her task. She hesitated no longer, and stepping out of her ambush, she stood before the girl. As soon as Mary perceived her, she dropped the flowers and sprang to meet her with a smile of joyous welcome. She was not startled by Catherine's sudden appearance. Her happiness had been too deep to be disturbed in a moment by any fears. The discord that divided them did not occur then to her mind; she only remembered the old love between them. But to the girl's surprise, Catherine did not return her fond caresses; she scarcely seemed to recognize her, but drew back averting her gaze, as if afraid of meeting those pleading eyes. "Mother, dear mother!" cried Mary, looking up to her face as she put her arms about her. "What is it? Are you still angry with me?" The woman took the girl's hands in hers, she could not help it, and spoke in dreamy absent tones, looking away from her the while across the river. "No Mary, no! but I do not feel very well to-day." "Poor mother! I am so sorry," Mary commenced, in a sympathetic voice. Catherine could not bear this. She felt she must hurry through her duty, or else break down. She wished now that she had not come to see the girl, but had written to her, so she strove against the horror that was paralyzing her will and spoke again, but with a painful excitement which she could not suppress. Her words came hurriedly and confusedly. "Mary, I must go in a few minutes--I have to catch a train--I wished to see you for a moment; I want to know if"----she almost broke down now--"if you will come and stay with me a week or two in town before--before--" ... but she could trust herself to say no more, and paused. Mary was astonished at the strangely excited, yet constrained manner of her former mistress, but suspected nothing. The woman waited for the girl's reply, waited breathlessly, hoping against hope that she would refuse the invitation. The pause seemed an eternity of agony to her, yet it was but of a few seconds. Mary answered in a voice full of affection and confidence, "Dear mother! How can you doubt what my answer will be? I was afraid you would never be friends with me again. You know how glad I shall be to be with you." She was going to say more, but stopped suddenly, observing the terrible change, the expression of extreme anguish that crossed Catherine's face.