The last task was the hardest.  She must write him a note, telling him that all was over between them.  The gray light of a clouded morning found her making the effort.  But for a long time her pen refused to move; her hand seemed powerless.  She felt weak and helpless as a very infant.  But it was done at last, and she read it over, wondering that she was alive to read it: 

“MR. ARCHER TREVLYN, SIR:—­Yesterday afternoon, when I last saw you, I did not think that before twenty-four hours had elapsed I should be under the necessity of inditing to you this letter.  Henceforth, you and I must be as strangers.  Not all the wealth and influence of the universe could tempt me to become your wife, now that my eyes are opened.  I renounce you utterly and entirely, and no word or argument of yours can change me.  Therefore, do not attempt to see me, for with my own consent I will never look upon your face again.  I deem no explanation necessary; your own conscience will tell you why I have been forced to make this decision.  I return to you with this note everything that can serve to remind me of you, and ask you to do me the favor to burn all that you may have in your possession which once was mine.  Farewell, now and forever.

“MARGARET HARRISON.”

There remained still something more to be done.  Margie knew that Archer Trevlyn would seek her out, and demand an explanation from her own lips, and this must never be.  She could not see him now; she was not certain that she could ever see him again.  She dared not risk the influence his personal presence might have upon her.  She must leave New York.  But where should she go?  She had scarcely asked the question before thought answered her.

Far away in the northern part of New Hampshire, resided old Nellie Day, the woman who had nursed her, and whom she had not seen for twelve years.  Nellie was a very quiet, discreet person, and had been very warmly attached to the Harrison family.  She had married late in life a worthy farmer, and giving up her situation in New York, had gone with him to the little-out-of-the-way village of Lightfield.  Margie had kept up a sort of desultory correspondence with her, and in every letter that the old lady wrote she had urged Margie to visit her in her country home.  It had never been convenient to do so, but now the place was suggested to her at once, and to Lightfield she decided to go.

She consulted her watch.  It was five o’clock; the train for the North, the first express, left at half-past six.  There would be time.  She would leave all her business affairs in the hands of Mr. Farley, her legal adviser and general manager; and as to the house, the maiden aunt who resided with her could keep up the establishment until her return, if she ever did return.

She packed a few of her plainest dresses and some other indispensables, in a trunk, arrayed herself in a dark traveling suit, and rang for Florine.  The girl looked at her in silent amazement.  Margie steadied her voice, and spoke carelessly enough.