was dreadful for him to die as he did. But what a life of
misery it saved me from! I will not think of it. I leave it all."

"It is best to do so. But to explain my presence at Harrison Park that
night. I went there hoping to catch a glimpse of you. I wanted to see you
once more before you were lost to me forever. I did not desire to speak
to you; I did not desire to disturb you in any way; but I wanted to see
you before that man had a legal claim on you. I watched your windows
closely. I had found out which was your window from one of the servants,
and I watched its light which burned through the dusky twilight like
the evening star. I wonder if you had a thought for me, that night,
Margie--your wedding night?"

"I did think of you--" she blushed, and hid her face on his shoulder--"I
did think of you. I longed inexpressibly to fly to your side and be
forever at rest!"

"My darling!" he kissed her fondly, and went on: "I saw you leave your
room by the window and come down the garden path. I had felt that you
would come. I was not surprised that you did. I had expected it. I
followed you silently, saw you kneel by the grave of your parents,
heard you call out upon your father for pity. O, how I loved and pitied
you, Margie--but my tongue was tied--I had no right to speak--but I did
kiss your hand. Did you know it Margie?"

"Yes."

"You recognized me, then? I meant you should. After that I hurried away.
I was afraid to trust myself near you longer, lest I might be tempted to
what I might repent. I fled away from the place and knew nothing of the
fearful deed done there until the papers announced it the next day."

"And I suspected you of the crime! O, Archer! Archer! how could I ever
have been so blind? How can you ever forgive me?"

"I want forgiveness, Margie. I doubted you. I thought you were false to
me, and had fled with Castrani. That unfortunate glove confirmed you, I
suppose. I dropped it in my haste to escape without your observation, and
afterward I expected to hear of it in connection with the finding of
Linmere's body. I never knew what became of it until my wife displayed
it, that day when she taunted me with my crime. Poor Alexandrine! She had
the misfortune to love me, and after your renunciation and your departure
from New York--in those days when I deemed you false as fair--I offered
her my hand. I thought perhaps she might be happier as my wife, and I
felt that I owed her something for her devote