She was about to refuse, but the mute pleading of his eyes deterred her.  He had been kind to her, and it could do her no harm.  Probably, he would never come to Lightfield, so she gave him the permission he asked for.

The day passed without incident, and nightfall found Margie within ten miles of her destination.  She was driven along a rough country road, to a square farm-house—­looming up white through the dark—­and a moment later she was lying, pale and exhausted, in the arms of Nurse Day.

“My blessed child!” cried the old lady; “my precious little Margie!  My old eyes will almost grow young again, after having been cheered by the sight of ye!” And she kissed Margie again and again, while Leo expressed his delight in true canine style—­by barking vociferously, and leaping over the chairs and tables.

Nurse Day was pleasantly situated.  Her husband was a grave, staid man who was very kind to Margie, always.  The farm was a rambling affair—­extending over, and embracing in its ample limits, hill and dale, meadow and woodland, and a portion, of a bright, swift river, on whose bold banks it was Margie’s delight to sit through the purple sunsets, and watch the play of light and shade on the bare, rocky cliff opposite.

Nature proved a true friend to the sore heart of the girl.  The breezes, so fresh, and sweet, and clear, soothed Margie inexpressibly.  The sunshine was a message of healing; the songs of the birds carried her back to her happy childhood.  Wandering through the leafy aisles of the forest, she seemed brought nearer to God and his mercy.  Only once had Nurse Day questioned her of the past, and then Margie had said: 

“I have done with the past forever, Nurse Day.  I wish it never recalled to me.  I have met with a great sorrow—­one of which I cannot speak.  I came here to forget it.  Never ask me anything about it.  I would confide it to you, if I could, but my word is given to another to keep silent.  I acted for what I thought best.  Heaven knows if I erred, I did not err willingly.”

“Give it all into God’s hands,” said Nurse Day, reverently.  “He knows just what is best for us.”

The days went on slowly, but they brought something of peace to Margie Harrison.  The violence of her distress passed away, and now there was only a dull pain at her heart—­a pain that must always have its abode there.

She held no communication with any person in New York, save her aunt, and her business agent, Mr. Farley, and her letters to them were posted in a distant town, in a neighboring State, where Nurse Day had friends—­and so Margie’s place of refuge was still a secret.

It was August now, and the weather at its hottest.  Margie spent a large portion of her time out of doors, with only Leo for a companion.  She sat, one lovely afternoon, on the bank of the river, dividing her time between the charming panorama of sunshine and shadow before her, and a book of poems in her lap, when there was a step at her side.  She looked up, and saw the face of Louis Castrani.