"And now, my friends, be kind enough to leave me alone," said Margie.
"I want the last hours of my free life to myself. I will ring when I
desire your attendance."

Margie's manner forbade any objection on the part of the attendants, and
they somewhat reluctantly withdrew. She turned the key upon them, and
went to the window. The rain had ceased falling, but the air was damp and
dense.

Her room was on the first floor, and the windows, furnished with
balconies, opened to the floor. She stood looking out into the night for
a moment, then gathering up her flowing drapery, and covering herself
with a heavy cloak, stepped from the window. The damp earth struck a
chill to her delicately-shod feet, but she did not notice it. The mist
and fog dampened her hair, unheeded. She went swiftly down the shaded
path, the dead leaves of the linden trees rustling mournfully as she
swept through them. Past the garden and its deserted summer-house, and
the grapery, where the purple fruit was lavishing its sweets on the air,
and climbing a stile, she stood beside a group of shading cypress trees.
Just before her was a square enclosure, fenced by a hedge of arbor vitae,
from the midst of which, towering white and spectral up into the silent
night, rose a marble shaft, surmounted by the figure of an angel, with
drooping head and folded wings.

Margie passed within the inclosure, and stood beside the graves of her
parents. She stood a moment silent, motionless; then, forgetful of her
bridal garment, she flung herself down on the turf.

"Oh, my father! my father!" she cried, "why did you doom me to such a
fate? Why did you ask me to give that fatal promise? Oh, look down from