“Margaret, there is more than one true heart in the world, as you will acknowledge, when I have told you my little story.  You know, now, why you discarded Archer Trevlyn.  You thought him guilty of the murder of Paul Linmere!”

A ghastly pallor overspread her face; she caught her breath in gasps, and clutched frantically the arm of Castrani.

“Hush!” she said.  “Do not say those dreadful words aloud; the very walls have ears sometimes!  Remember their utterance puts the life of a fellow mortal in peril!”

“Have no fear; I am going to right the wrong.”

“Leave this punishment to God.  It would kill me to see him brought before a hissing crowd to be tried for his life.  Oh, Mr. Castrani, I implore you—­”

“Calm yourself, my child.  I shall never knowingly injure Mr. Trevlyn.  He deserves no punishment for a sin he never committed.  He is guiltless of that deed as you are yourself!”

“Guiltless—­Archer guiltless!” she cried, her face wearing the pitiful, strained look of agonized suspense.  “I do not quite comprehend.  Say it again—­oh, say it again!”

“Margaret, Archer Trevlyn never lifted a hand against Paul Linmere—­never!  He is innocent before God and the angels!”

She dropped her head upon her hands, and burst into tears—­the first she had shed since that terrible night when that blasted revelation had, as she thought, sealed up the fountain of tears forever.  Castrani did not seek to sooth her; he judged rightly that she would be better for this abandonment to a woman’s legitimate source of relief.  She lifted her wet face at last—­but what a change was there!  The transparent paleness had given place to the sweet wild rose color which had once made Margie so very lovely, and the sad eyes were brilliant as stars, through the mist of tears.

“I believe it—­yes, I believe it?” she said, softly,—­reverently.  “I thank God for giving me the assurance.  You tell me so.  You would not, unless it were true!”

“No, Margaret; I would not,” replied Castrani, strongly affected.  “Heaven forbid that I should raise hopes which I cannot verify.  When you are calm enough to understand, I will explain it fully.”

“I am calm now.  Go on.”

“I must trouble you with a little, only a little, of my own private history, in order that you may understand what follows.  I am, as you know, a Cuban by birth, but my father, only, was Spanish.  My mother was a native of Boston, who married my father for love, and went with him to his Southern home.  I was an only child, and when I was about twelve years of age, my parents adopted a girl, some four years my junior.  She was the orphan child of poor parents, and was possessed of wonderful beauty and intelligence.  Together we grew up and no brother and sister loved each other more fully than we.  It was only a brotherly and sisterly love—­for I was engaged, at sixteen, to Inez de Nuncio, a lovely young Spanish