agedy 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.

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 weddin