In the third year Margie’s aunt married.  It was quite a little romance.  An old lover, discarded years before in a fit of girlish obstinacy, came back, after weary wanderings in search of happiness, and seeking out the love of other days, wooed and won her over again.

There was a quiet wedding, and then the happy pair decided on a trip to Europe.  And, of course, Margie must accompany them.  At first she demurred; she took so little pleasure in anything, she feared her presence might mar their happiness, and she dreaded to leave the place where she had passed so many delightful hours with him.  But her aunt and Doctor Elbert refused to give her up, and so, one beautiful September morning, they sailed for Liverpool in the good ship Colossus.

For many days the voyage was prosperous, but in mid-ocean they fell upon stormy weather, and the ship was tossed about at the winds and waters.  It was a terrible storm, and great apprehensions were entertained that the vessel might founder, but she would doubtless have weathered the blast in safety, if she had not sprung a leak.

The fearful intelligence was announced just at the closing in of a dark dismal night, and every heart sank, and every face was shrouded in gloom.  Only for a moment!  The men sprang to the pumps and worked with a will—­as men will work for their lives—­but their efforts were vain.  The water increased in the hold, and it soon became evident that the Colossus would hardly keep afloat until morning.

But Providence was pleased to snatch those human lives from the destruction which seemed inevitable, and just when they were most helpless, most despairing, the lights of a strange ship were seen.  They succeeded in making their desperate condition known, and by day-dawn all were safe on board the steamer; for the stranger proved to be a steamer on her way from Liverpool to New York.

The decks were crowded; Doctor Elbert was looking after his wife, and Margie, clinging to a rope, stood frightened and alone.  Some one came to her, said a few words which the tempest made inaudible, and carried her below.  The light of the cabin lamps fell full on his face.  She uttered a cry, for in that moment she recognized Archer Trevlyn.

“Margie Harrison!” he cried, his fingers closing tightly over hers.  “Margie!  Mine!  Mine at last!  The ocean has given you up to me!”

“O Archer! where have you been?  It has been so weary!  And I have wanted to see you so much—­that I might tell you how I had wronged you—­that I might ask you to forgive me.  Will you pardon me for believing that you could ever be guilty of that man’s death?  If you knew—­if you knew how artfully it was represented to me—­what overwhelming proofs were presented, you would not wonder—­”

“I do know all, Margie; Alexandrine told me.  My poor wife!  God rest her.  She believed me guilty, and yet her fatal love for me overlooked the crime.  She deceived me in many things, but she is dead, and I will not be unforgiving.  She poisoned my mind with suspicions of you and Louis Castrani, and I was fool enough to credit her insinuations.  Margie, I want you to pardon me.”