er white lips came a low moan that
betokened anguish too great for words. Then, when the passion of grief
had subsided and she was exhausted, she rose and stood erect. Then one
saw how superbly beautiful she was, although her face was stained with
tears.

She was still young, not more than three-and-twenty; her figure was of
rarest symmetry; when the great world knew her it had been accustomed to
say that her figure resembled that of the celebrated Diana for the
Louvre; there was the marvelous, free-spirited grace and matchless
perfection.

She had the face and head of a young queen, a face of peerless beauty; a
white, broad brow that might have worn a crown; eyes of the dark hue of
the violets, with long fringes that rested on a cheek perfect in shape
and color; brows straight, like those of a Greek goddess; lips sweet and
proud--they were white now, and quivering, but the beauty of the mouth
was unchanged.

So she stood in all the splendor of her grand loveliness. There is over
her whole figure and face that indescribable something which tells that
she is wife and mother both, that look of completed life.

The hands, so tightly clasped, are white and slender. There is no
attribute of womanly loveliness that does not belong to her.

After a time she went to the window. Great crimson roses, wet with dew,
and odorous woodbine peeped in as she opened it. The night-wind was
heavy with the perfume of the sleeping flowers, the golden stars were
shining in the sky, and she raised her pale, lovely face to the radiant
heavens.

"My God!" she prayed, "take pity on me, and before I realize what has
happened, let me die!"

"Let me die!" No other prayer went from her lips, although she sat
there from sunset until the early dawn of the new day flushed in the
glorious eastern skies.

While she sits there, with that despairing prayer rising from the depths
of her despairing heart, we will tell the story of Marian Arleigh's
penance.

CHAPTER II.

"You cannot be cruel. You cannot think it is wrong to meet me. My whole
life, with everything in it, belongs to you. If you told me to lie down
here and die at your feet, I should do so and smile. Why do you say it
is wrong, Marion?"

A lovely, child-like face was raised to the speaker.

"I do not know. I have a vague idea that anything requiring secrecy must
be wrong. Is it not so?"

He laughed.

"No, sweet. What would the great diplomatists of the world say to suc