om seated pensively by the stove; but
she rose and courteously made way for the visitor.

"Thank you, young lady; the winter nights are cold, and your stove is a
treat." Catherine then, while warming her hands, inspected her companion
furtively from head to foot, inclusive. The young person wore an
ordinary wimple, but her gown was trimmed with fur, which was, in those
days, almost a sign of superior rank or wealth. But what most struck
Catherine was the candour and modesty of the face. She felt sure of
sympathy from so good a countenance, and began to gossip.

"Now, what think you brings me here, young lady? It is a letter! a
letter from my poor boy that is far away in some savage part or other.
And I take shame to say that none of us can read it. I wonder whether
you can read?"

"Yes."

"Can ye, now? It is much to your credit, my dear. I dare say she won't
be long; but every minute is an hour to a poor longing mother."

"I will read it to you."

"Bless you, my dear; bless you!"

In her unfeigned eagerness she never noticed the suppressed eagerness
with which the hand was slowly put out to take the letter. She did not
see the tremor with which the fingers closed on it.

"Come, then, read it to me, prithee. I am wearying for it."

"The first words are, 'To my honoured parents.'"

"Ay! and he always did honour us, poor soul."

"'God and the saints have you in His holy keeping, and bless you by
night and by day. Your one harsh deed is forgotten; your years of love
remembered.'"

Catherine laid her hand on her bosom, and sank back in her chair with
one long sob.

"Then comes this, madam. It doth speak for itself; 'a long farewell.'"

"Ay, go on; bless you, girl you give me sorry comfort. Still 'tis
comfort."

"'To my brothers Cornelis and Sybrandt--Be content; you will see me no
more!'"

"What does that mean? Ah!"

"'To my sister Kate. Little angel of my father's house. Be kind to
her--' Ah!"

"That is Margaret Brandt, my dear--his sweetheart, poor soul. I've not
been kind to her, my dear. Forgive me, Gerard!"

"'--for poor Gerard's sake: since grief to her is death to me--Ah!"
And nature, resenting the poor girl's struggle for unnatural composure,
suddenly gave way, and she sank from her chair and lay insensible, with
the letter in her hand and her head on Catherine's knees.

CHAPTER XLIV

Experienced women are not frightened when a woman faints, or do they
hastily attribute it to anything