Putting Catharine gently away, he rushed past Mrs. Judson, pressed the pale hand of her daughter suddenly to his lips, and left the room.
Again all was still. Mrs. Judson whispered soothing words to her daughter, and old Mrs. Ford knelt beside Catharine, who lay weak and helpless on her bosom.
De Marke returned, flushed, smiling, but with tears in his eyes. Directly behind him came another person, so like himself, that a stranger might have been startled by a resemblance so remarkable.
“See! there she is, take care of her yourself, George, while I beg pardon of this lady.”
George De Marke fell upon his knees before the old lady, who still held Catharine in her arms.
“Give her to me! Let me look on her face. Catharine, Catharine, my wife, my wife!”
Catharine knew the voice. She started up. In an instant her face was flooded with tears. The other voice had seemed cold and strange—this penetrated her very soul. She reached out her arms like a little child—a long sweet sigh, as he gathered her to his bosom; and then it seemed as if she could never speak again, that trance of happiness was so perfect. George De Marke was still upon his knees, holding his wife in those strong arms, and thanking God that she was his again, when old Mrs. Ford arose and laid her two hands upon his head, with the softest and sweetest blessing that ever came out of a woman’s heart.
The young man looked up and met her eyes—those meek, brown eyes, so full of pathetic tenderness. Then an old man came into the group, and laid his hand, all wrinkled and quivering, upon those of the gentle matron.
“Son of my child,” he said, “God’s blessing be with you, even as mine is!”
A soft and holy amen stole from the lips of that dear old lady. Then the venerable couple retreated a little way off, leaving the dew of their benediction on the young man’s heart, which had risen full and gratefully to the touch of those hands.