Margie stopped by the door until her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, and then she saw that the centre of the room was occupied by a table, on which lay some rigid object—­strangely long, and still, and angular—­covered with a drapery of black velvet, looped up by dying water lilies.

Still controlled by that feeling of strange awe, Margie stole along to the table and lifted the massive cover.  She saw beneath it the pale, dead face of Alexandrine Trevlyn.  She dropped the pall, uttered a cry of horror, and sank upon a chair.  The door unclosed noiselessly, and Mrs. Lee, the mother of the dead woman, came in.

“Oh, Margie!  Margie!” she cried, “pity me!  My heart is broken!  My darling!  My only child is taken from me!”

It was long before she grew composed enough to give any explanation of the tragedy—­for tragedy Margie felt sure it was.

The story can be told in a few brief words.  Alexandrine and her husband had had some difficulty.  Mrs. Lee could not tell in relation to what, but she knew that Alexandrine blamed herself for the part she had taken.  Mr. Trevlyn left her in anger, to go to Philadelphia on business.  He was expected to be absent about four days.  Meanwhile, his wife suffered agonies of remorse, and counted the hours until his return should give her the privilege of throwing herself at his feet and begging his forgiveness.

But he did not return.  A week, ten days passed, and still no tidings.  Alexandrine was almost frantic.  On the eleventh day came a telegraph despatch, brief and cruel, as those heartless things invariably are, informing her that Mr. Trevlyn had closed his business in Philadelphia, and was on the eve of leaving the country for an indefinite period.  His destination was not mentioned, and his unhappy wife, feeling that if he left Philadelphia without her seeing him, all trace of him would be lost, hurried to the depot and set out for that city.

There had been an accident about half way between New York and Philadelphia, and Alexandrine Trevlyn had been brought back to her splendid home—­a corpse!  That was all.

Archer Trevlyn had left behind him no clue by which he might be reached or communicated with, and his wife, unforgiven, must be consigned to the tomb, without a single tear upon her face from the eyes of him she had loved so fondly.

They buried her at Greenwood, and the grass and flowers bloomed over her grave.  She passed out of memory, and was forgotten, like a perished leaf, or a beautiful sunset fading out with the night.

* * * * *

The summer days fled on, and brought the autumn mellowness and splendor.  Margie, outwardly calm and quiet, lived at Harrison Park with her staid maiden aunt.

A year passed away thus monotonously, then another, and no tidings ever came of Archer Trevlyn.  Margie thought of him now as we think of one long dead, with tender regret, and love almost reverent.  He was dead to her, she said, but it was no sin to cherish his memory.