“You are certain that she did not call herself by his name. Oh! try and remember.”
“No, no, I never heard her claim that name,” fell in cold, measured words from Catharine Lacy, as she sat there stunned and immovable, as if suddenly frozen into stillness.
“Still he might have been married to her. It is possible,” said the widow, with all a woman’s generous faith in the man she loves, rising up afresh in her heart.
“No!” answered Catharine, with the same cold measurement of words. “It is impossible. He could not have been her husband.”
“Why, how do you know? How came you with a knowledge of him or his?” cried the widow, with a pang of jealous suspicion in her voice.
“Remember, lady, I have spent many, many months in public institutions!” answered Catharine.
“I know—I did not think. Forgive me, I am almost mad. Besides, you do not seem like that, so kind, so sweet and lady-like.”
“You have made me your friend,—I feel for you. This is a fearful discovery. But tell me, how can I help you?”
“Tell me all you know of this poor child’s mother. It may wound me to death, but I shall feel so restless till the worst is confirmed; then perhaps God will give me strength. Tell me all!”
“I have, lady. She came to the hospital only a week or two before her death.”