“So knowing this, when I listened to the dying confession of Arabel Vere, I knew that this confession would clear Archer Trevlyn from all shadow of suspicion.  Arabel died, and I buried her.  Previous to her death—­perhaps, to guard against accident, perhaps, guided by the hand of a mysterious Providence to clear the fair fame of an injured man—­she wrote out at length the history of her life.  She gave it to me.  I have it here.  It will explain to you all that you will desire to know.”

He gave her the manuscript, wrung her hand, and left her.

* * * * *

Far into the night, Margie sat reading the closely-written sheets, penned by the hand now pulseless in death.  All was made clear; Archer Trevlyn was fully exculpated.  He was innocent of the crime which she had been influenced to believe he had committed.  She fell on her knees, and thanked God for that.  Though lost to her, it was a consolation ineffable to know that he had not taken the life of a fellow-mortal.

Her resolution was taken before morning.  She had deeply wronged Archer Trevlyn, and she must go to him with a full confession, confess her fault, and plead for his forgiveness.

Castrani, who came in the morning, approved her decision; and Nurse Day, who was told the whole story, and listened with moist eyes, agreed with them both.  So it happened that on the ensuing morning Margie bade farewell to the quiet home which had sheltered her through her bitterest sorrow, and accompanied by Castrani, set forth for New York.

She went to her own home first.  Her aunt was in the country, but the servants gave her a warm welcome, and after resting for an hour, she took her way to the residence of Archer Trevlyn, but a few squares distant.

A strange silence seemed to hang over the palatial mansion.  The blinds were closed—­there was no sign of life about the premises.  A thrill of unexplained dread ran through her frame as she touched the silver-handled bell.  The servant who answered her summons seemed to partake of the strange, solemn quiet pervading everything.

“Is Mr. Trevlyn in?” she asked, trembling in spite of herself.

“I believe Mr. Trevlyn has left the country, madam.”

“Left the country?  When did he go?”

“Some days ago.”

Margie leaned against the carved marble vase which flanked the massive doorway, unconsciously crushing the crimson petals of the trumpet-flower which grew therein.  What should she do?  She could write to him.  His wife would know his address.  She caught at the idea.

“Mrs. Trevlyn—­take me to her!  She was an old friend of mine.”

The man looked at her curiously, hesitated a moment, and motioning her to enter, indicated the closed door of the parlor.

“You can go in, I presume, as you are a friend of the family.”

A feeling of solemnity, which was almost awe, stole over Margie as she turned the handle of the door, and stepped inside the parlor.  It was shrouded in the gloom of almost utter darkness.  The heavy silken curtains fell drooping with their costliness to the velvet carpet, and a faint, sickening odor of withering water lilies pervaded the close atmosphere.  Water lilies!—­they were Alexandrine’s favorite flowers.