“I know, but on this occasion.  Hush! that was the whistle of the train.  Mr. Linmere will be here in a few minutes!  Shall I bring him up to see you?  It is not etiquette for the groom to see the bride on the day of their marriage, until they meet at the altar; but you look so charming, dear!  I would like him to admire you.  He has such exquisite taste.”

Margie’s uplifted eyes had a half-frightened look, which Alexandrine did not understand.

“No, no!” she said, hurriedly; “do not bring him here!  We will follow etiquette for this time, if you please, Miss Lee.”

“O well, just as you please, my dear.”

“And now, my friends, be kind enough to leave me alone,” said Margie.  “I want the last hours of my free life to myself.  I will ring when I desire your attendance.”

Margie’s manner forbade any objection on the part of the attendants, and they somewhat reluctantly withdrew.  She turned the key upon them, and went to the window.  The rain had ceased falling, but the air was damp and dense.

Her room was on the first floor, and the windows, furnished with balconies, opened to the floor.  She stood looking out into the night for a moment, then gathering up her flowing drapery, and covering herself with a heavy cloak, stepped from the window.  The damp earth struck a chill to her delicately-shod feet, but she did not notice it.  The mist and fog dampened her hair, unheeded.  She went swiftly down the shaded path, the dead leaves of the linden trees rustling mournfully as she swept through them.  Past the garden and its deserted summer-house, and the grapery, where the purple fruit was lavishing its sweets on the air, and climbing a stile, she stood beside a group of shading cypress trees.  Just before her was a square enclosure, fenced by a hedge of arbor vitae, from the midst of which, towering white and spectral up into the silent night, rose a marble shaft, surmounted by the figure of an angel, with drooping head and folded wings.

Margie passed within the inclosure, and stood beside the graves of her parents.  She stood a moment silent, motionless; then, forgetful of her bridal garment, she flung herself down on the turf.

“Oh, my father! my father!” she cried, “why did you doom me to such a fate?  Why did you ask me to give that fatal promise?  Oh, look down from heaven and pity your child!”

The wind sighed mournfully in the cypresses, the belated crickets and katydids droned in the hedge, but no sweet voice of sympathy soothed Margie’s strained ear.  For, wrought up as she was, she almost listened to hear some response from the lips which death had made mute forever.

The village clock struck half-past eight, warning Margie that it was almost time for the ceremony to take place.  She started up, drew her cloak around her, and turned to leave the place.  As she did so, she felt a touch on her hand—­the hand she laid for a moment on the gate—­as she stood giving a last sad look at the mound of earth she was leaving, a touch light and soft as a breath, but which thrilled her through every nerve.