heaven and pity your child!"

The wind sighed mournfully in the cypresses, the belated crickets and
katydids droned in the hedge, but no sweet voice of sympathy soothed
Margie's strained ear. For, wrought up as she was, she almost listened
to hear some response from the lips which death had made mute forever.

The village clock struck half-past eight, warning Margie that it was
almost time for the ceremony to take place. She started up, drew her
cloak around her, and turned to leave the place. As she did so, she felt
a touch on her hand--the hand she laid for a moment on the gate--as she
stood giving a last sad look at the mound of earth she was leaving, a
touch light and soft as a breath, but which thrilled her through every
nerve.

She turned her head quickly, but saw nothing. Something the sound of
receding footsteps met her ear, nothing more, but she was convinced there
had been a human presence near her. Where? Her heart beat strangely; her
blood, a moment before so chilled and stagnant, leaped through her veins
like fire. From whence arose the change?

She reached her chamber without meeting any one, and unlocking the door,
rang for her attendants. The house was in a strange confusion. Groups
were gathered in the corridors, whispering together, and some unexplained
trouble seemed to have fallen upon the whole place.

After a little while, Alexandrine came in, pale and haggard. Margie saw
her white dress was damp, and her hair uncurled, as if by the weather.

"Where have you been, Alexandrine?" she asked; "and what is the matter?"