* * * * *

Three months after the death of Paul Linmere, Margie met Archer Trevlyn at the house of Alexandrine Lee.  He was quite a constant visitor there, Mrs. Lee told her, with a little conscious pride, for young Trevlyn was being spoken of in business circles as a rising young man.  He was to be admitted to partnership in the firm of Belgrade and Co., in the spring.  And this once effected, his fortune was made.

There was a little whist party at Mrs. Lee’s that evening, and Margie was persuaded to remain.  After a while the company asked for music.  Whist, the books of engravings, and the bijoux of the centre-table were exhausted, and small talk flagged.  Margie was reluctantly prevailed upon to play.

She was not a wonderful performer, but she had a fine ear, and played with finish and accuracy.  But she sang divinely.  To oblige her friends, she sang a few new things and then pausing, was about to rise from the instrument, when Mr. Trevlyn came to her side.

“Will you play something for me?” he asked, stooping over her.  His dark, passionate eyes brought the blood to her face—­made her restless and nervous in spite of herself.

“What would you like?” she managed to ask.

“This!” He selected an old German ballad, long ago a favorite in the highest musical circles, but now cast aside for something newer and more brilliant.  A simple, touching little song of love and sorrow.

She was about to decline singing it, but something told her to beware of false modesty, and she sang it through.

“I thank you!” he said, earnestly, when she had finished.  “It has done me good.  My mother used to sing that song, and I have never wanted to hear it from any other lips—­until now.”

Alexandrine glided along, as radiant as a humming-bird, her cheeks flushed, her black eyes sparkling, her voice sweet as a siren’s.

“Sentimentalizing, I declare!” she exclaimed, gayly; “and singing that dreadful song, too!  Ugh! it gives me the cold shudders to listen to it!  How can you sing it, Margie, dear?”

“Miss Harrison sang it at my request, Miss Lee,” said Trevlyn, gravely, “it is an old favorite of mine.  Shall I not listen to you now?”

Alexandrine took the seat Margie had vacated, and glanced up at the two faces so near her.

“Why, Margie!” she said, “a moment ago I thought you were a rose, and now you are a lily!  What is the matter?”

“Nothing, thank you,” returned Margie, coldly.  “I am weary, and will go home soon, I think.”

Trevlyn looked at her with tender anxiety, evidently forgetful that he had requested Miss Lee to play.

“You are wearied,” he said.  “Shall I call your carriage?”

“If you please, yes.  Miss Lee I am sure will excuse me.”

“I shall be obliged to, I suppose.”

Trevlyn put Margie’s shawl around her, and led her to the carriage.  After he had assisted her in, he touched lightly the hand he had just released, and said “Good-night,” his very accent a blessing.