boat. They were making for the shore upon which the wreck was
strewn.

Varrick sprung forward.

"Is it the body of a woman you have there?" he cried.

They lifted it out tenderly and uncovered the face. It was mutilated
beyond recognition, and the clothing was so torn and soiled by the
action of the waves that scarcely enough of it remained intact, to
disclose its color or texture.

There was great consternation when Hubert Varrick returned home with the
body of his bride, and more than one whispered: "Fate seems to have been
against that marriage from the very first! 'What is to be, will be.'
These two proposed to marry, but a Higher Power decreed that they were
not for each other."

The same thought had come to Hubert Varrick as he paced wearily up and
down his own room.

It was a nine-days' subject for pity and comment, and then the public
ceased to think about it, and Gerelda's fate was at last forgotten.

Hubert Varrick then arranged his business for a trip abroad, and when he
said good-bye to his mother and Mrs. Northrup, he added that he might be
gone years, perhaps forever.

In the very moment that he uttered those words, how strange it was that
the thought came over him that he might never see Jessie Bain again.

But this thought, at such a time, he put from him as unworthy to linger
in his breast. And when the "City of Paris" sailed away, among her
passengers was Hubert Varrick.

He watched the line of shore until it disappeared from his sight, and a
heavy sigh throbbed on his lips as his thoughts dwelt sadly on Gerelda,
his fair young bride, who lay sleeping on the hill-side just where the
setting sun glinted the marble shaft over her grave with a touch of pale
gold.

Let us return to the cottage home of Jessie Bain, and see what is taking
place there on this memorable day.

For a week after the unfortunate young girl was brought under that roof,
carried there from the wreck, her life hung as by a single thread. The
waves had been merciful to her, for they had balked death by washing her
ashore.

A handkerchief marked with the name "Margaret Moore" had been found
floating near her, and this, they supposed, belonged to her.

How strange it is that such a little incident can change the whole
current of a human being's life.

The daily papers far and wide duly chronicled the rescue of Margaret
Moore. No one recognized the name, no friends came to claim her. They
had made a pitiful discovery,