That instant little Edward entered the room. The curls were blown back from his broad forehead, and his eyes sparkled; he had caught a great painted butterfly, and held it up in triumph. The attitude, the curve of his bright lips, the whole face, struck both these women with one thought, and their eyes met. A sudden and dark frown swept over the face of Mrs. Judson, while the daughter grew still and white, as if all the blood in her veins had turned to snow.
“You need not search far,” said Mrs. Judson, pointing her finger at the child, “he came from the institution.”
Mrs. Oakley slowly approached the boy. Her hands trembled violently as she put back his hair, and a spasm of pain shot through her as the boy sprang up, and locking his arms over her neck, attempted to surprise her with his eager kisses.
“Who made you cry, mamma?—who made you cry?”
“No one, darling,” said the widow, struggling against the recoil of her own heart, but forced, as it were, to unclasp his little hands.
The boy drew back, and his bright lips began to quiver.
“I have lost the butterfly,” he sobbed, regretfully, following the gossamer wings, as they floated away, with his eyes; “and now my own mamma don’t care about my kisses!”
“She does—she does!” cried the widow, sinking to her knees, and winding her arms around the child. “The better, all the better, if these dear eyes are his. Ah, I knew! I knew that there was some sweet mystery in a love that no mother ever felt more purely for her own child. Oh, it is everything to know that his life fills my arms, that I have fed and cherished it so long!”
“Woman, what is this?” cried Mrs. Judson, stalking across the floor and laying her hand heavily on her daughter’s shoulder; “are you raving mad? Is it a De Marke you speak of?”
“Yes, mother,” said the widow, rising to her feet, but with the child’s hand in hers. “It is of a De Marke that I speak; appearances may be against him, but I will not believe him so wicked till the proofs are beyond contradiction. Louisa may be dead; Catharine Lacy may be dead; but though their last acts and their last words accuse him, I will not believe them. Something of trouble and sorrow there may be, but nothing that should bring contempt upon an honorable man!”