Catherine sat down again, and was silent for several minutes. A black despair settled down upon her mind. She saw that it was all over--the Cause had received its death-blow. Of all her friends and disciples, but one was left her--this faithful Eliza, who would, if she let her, cling all the closer to her fallen Chief. It was all over--the hopes, the doubts, the suspense, were gone; and when she spoke it was in a quite calm and passionless voice. "I understand now, Sister Eliza; I will give my last order to the Sisterhood. Go to them and tell them the Society is dissolved--they may all go their separate ways. Remind them that they must, throughout their lives, observe their oath of secrecy--that is all I ask of them. If they fail to do this, a higher Society will know how to punish traitors. Tell them that I will render no account of the moneys that have passed through my hands. I have never taken one penny of the fund for my own use. Whatever balance there is I will send to another Society--a Society of men, not of cowardly women--who will make good use of it. This is my last message to the Sisters." "But if--" her amazed listener was commencing in a faltering voice. "No, no! Eliza," interrupted Catherine, impatiently; "no buts and ifs--it is too late for them. I do not wish to discuss this matter. I do not wish ever again to hear the Society mentioned before me. To think of it maddens me. Please do not talk to me about it. Let us change the conversation; I will ring the bell for some tea." The strong green tea was brought up. Sister Eliza sipped hers in silence, gazing sadly at her broken-hearted Chief. Soon Catherine got up from her chair, and going to a cupboard, drew out a small bottle. She laughed a little hysterical laugh--one of those laughs that have more pain in them than any sob--and said: "I am taking a leaf out of our friend Susan Riley's book. She found laudanum useful. A little mixed with one's tea is good; at any rate it prevents rage from driving one quite mad," and she poured some of the contents of the bottle into her cup. "It is a dangerous practice though," observed her friend. "Dangerous! how so? What have I to fear? The habit of laudanum-tippling soon spoils a young woman's beauty. Look at Susan, it has made her vanity suffer somewhat, I know; but it can't hurt me in that way, or in any other way, for the matter of that," and she laughed that terrible laugh again. Sister Eliza felt a sincere sorrow for this one human being she admired; she saw that Catherine ought not to be left alone in her present wild state of mind. "I should like to come and see you often, Sister Catherine," she ventured to say. "It is very kind of you, Eliza, but it cannot be a good thing for you, as I don't feel like being a very pleasant companion just now. I leave town to-morrow, perhaps for years, and I cannot tell you where I am going."