“It is not in my power at present to tell you how the rumor has reached me,” continued Miss Heath, “but, having reached me, I want to say a few words about—­ about Annabel Lee.”

“Oh, don’t!” said Maggie, rising to her feet, her face pale as death.  She put her hand to her heart as she spoke.  A pang, not so much mental as bodily, had gone through it.

“My dear, I think you must listen to me while I give you a message from one whom you dearly loved, whose death has changed you, Maggie, whose death we have all deeply mourned.”

“A message?” said Maggie; “a message from Annabel!  What message?”

“I regarded it as the effects of delirium at the time,” continued Miss Heath, “and as you had fever immediately afterward, dreaded referring to the subject.  Now I blame myself for not having told you sooner, for I believe that Annabel was conscious and that she had a distinct meaning in her words.”

“What did she say?  Please don’t keep me in suspense.”

“It was shortly before she died,” continued Miss Heath; “the fever had run very high, and she was weak, and I could scarcely catch her words.  She looked at me.  You know how Annabel could look, Maggie; you know how expressive those eyes could be, how that voice could move one.”

Maggie had sunk back again in her chair; her face was covered with her trembling hands.

“Annabel said,” continued Miss Heath, “’tell Maggie not to mistake me.  I am happy.  I am glad she will marry’—­ I think she tried to say a name, but I could not catch it—­ tell her to marry him, and that I am very glad.’”

A sob broke from Maggie Oliphant’s lips.  “You might have told me before!” she said in a choked voice.

CHAPTER XXXII

 The Princess

The great event of the term was to take place that evening.  The Princess was to be acted by the girls of St. Benet’s, and, by the kind permission of Miss Vincent, the principal of the entire college, several visitors were invited to witness the entertainment.  The members of the Dramatic Society had taken immense pains; the rehearsals had been many, the dresses all carefully chosen, the scenery appropriate—­ in short, no pains had been spared to render this lovely poem of Tennyson’s a dramatic success.  The absence of Rosalind Merton had, for a short time, caused a little dismay among the actors.  She had been cast for the part of Melissa: 

  “A rosy blonde, and in a college gown
   That clad her like an April daffodilly.”

But now it must be taken my some one else.

Little Ada Hardy, who was about Rosalind’s height, and had the real innocence which, alas! poor Rosalind lacked, was sent for in a hurry, and, carefully drilled by Constance Field and Maggie Oliphant, by the time the night arrived she was sufficiently prepared to act the character, slight in itself, which was assigned to her.  The other actors were, of course, fully prepared to take their several parts, and a number of girls were invested in the