“I have brought a lame bird for little Edward to nurse,” said Catharine, entering the drawing-room, with her right hand folded over a robin nestled in the palm of her left. “Some cat has wounded it, I fancy. See, darling, what I have brought for you.”
Catharine spoke hurriedly, and turned her eyes away from Mrs. Oakley, for a single glance at her agitated face was enough to arouse all the instinctive delicacy of her nature.
“I don’t want a lame robin,” said Edward, turning away with tears in his eyes. “They have hurt my pretty mamma, and I’d rather take care of her. She’s worse wounded than the bird.”
Mrs. Oakley’s face flushed with fond triumph as the boy came toward her; turning her eyes upon Catharine, she said,
“Isn’t he truthful? Is there a drop of faithless blood in his veins?”
“He is an angel!” answered Catharine, gazing fondly on the child, and stooping down, she passed her hand through the curls that fell over his white forehead. In doing this she exposed the tiny red cross which we have before seen among those clustering curls.
Catharine caught her breath at the sight, and drew away her fingers as if the cross had been of living fire.
“What is this?—whose child is this?” she questioned.
“If I did but know—if I could but have a certainty!” answered the widow, almost wildly. “But why do you ask just now? Has every one conspired to torture me with doubts and accusations? Who told you that he was not my child?”
“No one,” answered Catharine. “Up to this hour I supposed that he was your child; but this mark,—forgive me, but I have seen it before.”