“When the dog took us to the graveyard, I thought I would be the first inside—­I would see if there was anything left on the ground to point to the real murderer.  You remember that I picked up something, do you not?”

“I do.  Your glove, was it not?”

“Yes.  It was my glove!  I defy the whole world to take it from me!  I would die before such a proof should be brought against the man I love!” she cried wildly.  “See here!”

She drew from her bosom a kid glove, stained and stiff with blood.

“Margie, have you ever seen it before?  Look here.  It has been mended; sewed with blue silk!  Do you remember anything about it?”

“Yes; I saw you mend it at Cape May,” she answered, the words forced from her, apparently, without her volition.

“You are right.  He had torn it while rowing me out, one morning.  I saw the rent and offered to repair it.  He makes his gloves wear well, doesn’t he?”

“O don’t! don’t! how can you!  Alexandrine, wake me, for mercy’s sake!  This is some horrible dream.”

“I would to heaven it were!  It would be happier for us all.  But if you feel any doubt about the identity of the glove, look here.”  She turned back the wrist, and there on the inside, written in the bold characters which were a peculiarity of Arch Trevlyn’s handwriting, was the name in full—­Archer Trevlyn.

Margie shrank back and covered her eyes, as if to shut out the terrible proof.  Alexandrine returned the glove to her bosom, and then continued: 

“The handkerchief found near Mr. Linmere was marked with the single letter A. Whose name begins with that letter?”

“Stop, I implore you!  I shall lose my reason!  I am blinded—­I cannot see!  O, if I could only die and leave it all!”

“You will not die.  I bore it, and still live; and it is so much harder for me, because I have to bear it all alone.  You have your religion to help you, Margie.  Surely that will bear you up!  I have heard all you pious people prate enough of its service in time of trouble to remember that consolation.”

“Don’t, Alexandria!  It is sinful to scorn God’s holy religion.  Yes, you are right; it will help me.  God himself will help me, if I ask him.  He knows how much I stand in need of it.”

“I am glad you are so likely to be supported,” returned the girl, half-earnestly, half-contemptuously.  “Are you satisfied in regard to Mr. Archer Trevlyn?”

“I will not credit it!” cried Margie, passionately.  “He did not do that deed!  He could not!  So good, and noble, and pitiful of all suffering humanity!  And besides, what motive could he have?”

“The motive was all-powerful.  Has not Mr. Trevlyn, by his own confession, loved you from his youth up?”

“Yes.”