r it always,
Margie. We never love those who tell us disagreeable truths, even though
it be for our good."

"I do not know what you would tell me, Alexandrine, but I do not think
I shall hate you for it."

"Not if I tell you evil of Archer Trevlyn?"

"I will not listen to it!" she cried, indignantly.

"I expected as much. Well, Margie, you shall not. I will hold my peace;
but if ever, in the years to come, the terrible secret should be revealed
to you--the secret which would then destroy your happiness for all
time--remember that I would have saved you, and you refused to listen."

She drew her shawl around her shoulders, and rose to go.

Margie caught her arm.

"What is it? You _shall_ tell me! Suspense is worse than certainty."

"And if I tell you, you will keep silent? Silent as the grave itself?"

"Yes, if you wish it."

"Will you swear it?"

"I cannot; but I will keep it just as sacredly."

"I want not only your promise, but your oath. You would never break
an oath. And this which I am about to tell you, if known to the world,
involves Archer Trevlyn's life! and you refuse to take an oath."

"His life! Yes, I will swear. I would do anything to make his life
safer."

"Very well. You understand me fully? You are never to reveal anything
I may tell you to-night, unless I give you leave. You swear it?"

"I swear it."

"Listen, then. You remember the night Mr. Linmere was murdered?"

Margie grew pale as death, and clasped her hands convulsively.

"Yes, I remember it."

"You desired us, after we had finished dressing you, to leave you alone.
We did so, and you locked the door behind us, stepped from the window,
and went to the grave of your parents."

"I did."

"You remained there some little time, and when you turned away,
you stopped to look back, and in doing so you laid your hand--this
one,--" she touched Margie's slender left hand, on which shone Archer
Trevlyn's betrothal ring--"on the gate post. Do you remember it?"

"Yes, I remember it."

"And while it rested there--while your eyes were turned away, that hand
was touched--by something soft, and warm, and sentient--too warm, too
passionate, to be the kiss of a disembodied soul. Living human lips, that
scorched into your flesh, and thrilled you as nothing else ever had the
power to thrill you!"

Margie trembled convulsively, her color came and went, and she clasped
and unclasped her hands with nervous agitation.

"Am I not speaking