The months wore away, and Margaret applied herself closely to her labor, and became a favorite with her companions. Gladly would she have changed places with most of them, but they knew not the secret sorrow which was wearing her bloom away. Her sighs grew more frequent, as the time rapidly approached when she must leave them.

Again and again she resolved to go to Mrs. Armstrong, and tell her all her grief, but the remembrance of her kindness made her cheek turn scarlet when the thought suggested itself. No, she could not reveal it to one whom she loved so well. She must go far away, and hide her shame from the eyes of all who had befriended her, and she had made many friends, yet would have lingered a few weeks longer, had she not one evening just at dark espied an old gentleman from her village, an acquaintance of her father's. She could not bear the thought that she must be carried back, to scenes so closely allied to her sufferings, and bear the scorn of those who knew her. She could not endure that, and fearing that the person whom she had seen might some time meet and recognize her, she hastened the preparations for a change. Again she collected her clothing, now more valuable, packed it and awaited some indication of the direction in which she should move.

She must once more see the face of that good woman, who had been so faithful and kind to her; and after many efforts to call upon her, finally gained courage and did so.

A strange thrill came over Mrs. Armstrong, as she heard the gate close, and a well-known step on the gravel walk. Margaret patted her old friend Trot as she approached the house, and somewhat surprised Mrs. Armstrong with her presence when she entered.

“I am glad to see you,” said Mrs. Armstrong, with her usual kind look of welcome, but with a deep tremor in her voice. “Come and sit by me, Margaret, and let me see if your hard labor is wearing you out. I have thought for some weeks that you looked pale.”

Margaret trembled in every limb, as she took the seat her friend offered her, for a searching glance accompanied her friend's words. Just then a strange thought flashed through Mrs. Armstrong's mind-a thought she could not put aside, and she tried in every way to win the poor girl's confidence, and perhaps might have succeeded had there not been heard the sound of footsteps outside. Trot's loud bark made them both start and turn their faces to the window. Margaret gave one glance,—and she needed not a second to assure her that the caller was none other than the old gentleman she had seen on the street. In a moment there was a knock at the door. While Mrs. Armstrong answered the call, Margaret made one bound from the sitting room to the kitchen, and from thence into the open air, and flew as fast as her feet could carry her, towards her boarding house.

As she turned from the principal street, a woman accosted her, and inquired the way to the Belmont House. Glad of anything that would even for a moment take her thoughts from herself, she offered to show her the way.

The darkness was so great, she had no fear of being recognized, as she walked in silence with the stranger. One thought filled her whole being, and the problem with her was, how she could escape from N—, and where should she find shelter?

“Perhaps you can tell me,” said the lady, in a clear, silvery voice, “of some young girl, or two, or three even, whom I can get to return with me to B—.”

“I am here,” she continued, “in search of help; good American help. I am so worn with foreign servants that I can endure them no longer.”

Margaret's heart gave one bound. Here was her opportunity, and she only needed the courage to offer her services.

“Perhaps you would go?” said the stranger, who looked for the first time on Margaret's face, as they stopped in the light that shone brilliantly in front of the Belmont House. “Or, maybe you do not work for a living. Excuse me, if I have made a blunder.”

“I do,” answered Margaret, “and would like to go with you if I can earn good wages.”

“I will see that you are well remunerated, provided you suit me. I shall go to-morrow, in the noon train. If I do not succeed in getting any others beside yourself, will you meet me at the station?”

Margaret replied in the affirmative, and retraced her steps, pondering upon how she should secrete herself during the intervening period.

She walked rapidly back to her home, and thought how fortunate it was that her room-mates were absent that night, and good Mrs. Crawford would never suspect that the quiet girl up stairs was planning how she could escape with her clothing. The darkness of the evening favored her, and the noise within prevented any that might be without, from being noticed.

She enclosed the balance due for her board, in an envelope, sealed, and directed it to Mrs. Crawford, and laid it on the little table at which she had stood so many mornings, weary in body and sick in soul.

She hoped she would not encounter any one on the stairs, and to her relief she did not. For an instant she paused, as she heard the footsteps of the good housewife walking from the pantry to the dining-room, intent on her useful life, uncouth, illiterate, but kind and well-meaning. A tear stole over her cheek as she listened for the last time to that firm step, which never seemed to flag in its daily rounds, and one which often, when the day's work was over, went lightly to the bedside of the sick. But no time must be lost; the door was opened and closed, and she was once again out in the world, a wanderer. She knew not what her next step was to be. Standing there in the silence and darkness of the night, she clasped her hands, and with earnest prayer, implored Divine guidance.

Down through the earthly shadows, through clouds of oppression, swept a mother's pure, undying love. Love for her wronged child, and pity for her state; for angel's missions are not in halls of light, amid scenes of mirth, but far away in desolate homes, with the oppressed and the forsaken, bringing hope to the despairing, comfort to the lonely, joy to the sad, and rest to weary hearts.

A thought darted through her mind, and she rose firm and collected, as though a human hand had been outstretched for her aid. Who shall question that it was a mother that spoke to her at that moment?

She arose, and as noiselessly as possible wended her way to a small and obscure dwelling, inhabited by a strange old woman, known to all the villagers, as possessing a wondrous power of vision, by which she professed to foretell the future, and decide questions of love and business.

Margaret had often heard the girls in the factory speak of her, and knew that they frequently consulted her; but she had always shrank from the thought of going to her dwelling, though often importuned by them to do so. Now, how gladly her feet turned that way, as to her only refuge, for she well knew if she was searched for, no one would think of going there to find her.

She reached the place at last, and with beating heart and dizzy brain, raised her hand and rapped very softly at the door. Then the thought flashed over her, that some one might be there who knew her, and hope fled for an instant.

The rap, low as it was, soon brought the old woman, who opened the door and said in a voice tremulous but sweet, “Come in, my dear. I saw last night that a stranger was to visit me at this hour; yes, it's the same face,” then motioned for her to pass in.

Margaret's first thought was that some evil was intended, and she trembled and grew pale.

“No fears, my child,” said the woman, as though she had read her very thought, “angels are around you, guarding your life. I do only my part of the work, which is to keep you to-night.”

And this was the strange woman of whom she had heard so munch. Her fears vanished, she took the proffered seat, and without a shadow of distrust, drank the glass of cordial which was passed to her.

A feeling of rest came over her,—a rest deeper than sleep imparts. She leaned back in the chair, pillowed her head against the cushion, and felt more peaceful than she had for many months.

A strange curiosity pervaded her being, as she watched the woman moving about the room, to know of her former life-the life of her maidenhood,—and learn if others beside herself had loved and been betrayed.

“I shall have no visitors to-night,” said the woman, seating herself opposite to Margaret.

“Do you often afford a shelter to strangers, as you have to me to-night?”

“Yes, child; many a sorrow-laden traveller, worn with life, seeks my lowly cot.”

“Sorrow-laden and worn with life,” said Margaret, repeating the words to herself; “she must have known my past experience;” and she wished she would go on, for somehow her words comforted her.

“Yes, there are more sinned against than sinning,” she continued. “I knew that you was coming, or rather some one, for last night in my dreams I saw a form, and now I know it was your own, floating on a dark stream. There was no boat in sight, no human being on shore, to save you. The cold waters chilled you, till you grew helpless, and the waves bore you swiftly to the ocean. I cried for help, and was awakened by my effort. That stream represents your past, and here you are now in my dwelling. Some one has wronged you, girl?”

She did not see the tinge on the pale cheek of Margaret, but continued, “Yes, wronged; but I see clouds and darkness before you, and then happiness, but not the joys of earth. Something higher, holier, my child.”

A light seemed to have gathered over the face of the speaker, and her words, although strange and new to Margaret, seemed full of truth and meaning.

“Shall I find rest on earth?” she inquired.

“No, not here; above,” the old woman lifted her eyes toward heaven, then said:

“You are stepping into sorrow now; going with one who will degrade you. Do not follow her. Though her outer garments are of purple and fine linen, her spiritual robe is black and unseemly.”

“Where? O, tell me, then, where to go,” exclaimed Margaret, her whole face pale with terror.

“Go nowhere at present. I see nothing now; all is dark before me. Stay beneath my roof, till light breaks. I see that you will need a mother's care ere long.”

Here the poor girl's long pent up tears flowed in torrents; tears such as angels pity. It was a long time ere she grew calm; and when peace came, it was like that of a statue, she was cold and silent. No future stretched before her, nothing but a present, sad and hopeless, in which circumstances had placed her.

“Shall I tell you the story of my girl-life,” said the strange, weird woman, putting a fresh supply of wood upon the fire, which had fallen into embers.

Margaret's interest manifested itself in her face, as she answered, “I would like to know if others have suffered like myself?”

“It will help you bear your own burden better, and perhaps show you that none escape the fire. I will proceed with my narrative.”

“Many years ago, so many that it seems as though ages must have intervened, I loved a young and elegant man, who returned my affection with all the devotion which an earnest, exacting nature like mine could desire. I was the only child of wealthy parents, who spared no pains or expense on my education. With them I visited Europe, and while there, met this person, who seemed to be all that mortal could aspire to; refined, educated, and the possessor of a fortune. The alliance was the consummation of my fond parents' wishes. I will pass over the weeks of bliss which followed our engagement, and speak of scenes fraught with the most intense excitement to myself and others. We were at Berlin when my engagement was sanctioned by my parents. A few weeks subsequent, there arrived at the hotel at which we were stopping, a family of most engaging manners. We were at once attracted to them, and in a few days words of kindly greeting were exchanged, and finding them very genial, a warm friendship soon existed between us. The family consisted of parents, three sons, and two daughters. Laura, the eldest, was the one to whom I was particularly drawn. She was tall, graceful, and had about her an air of elegance, which showed unmistakably, her early associations. But to the point: I had been walking with my lover one evening, in the summer moonlight, and had retired to my room, strangely fatigued. I had never before parted from Milan, my betrothed, with such a lassitude as then pervaded my entire being. I had always felt buoyant and strong.-That night, as I laid on my bed, seeking in vain the rest which sleep might give me, I seemed suddenly to float out in the air, to rise above my body, and yet I distinctly felt its pulsations. The next moment, the sound of voices attracted me, and though I was in my room, and the persons in conversation in a distant apartment, yet I could hear every word which was uttered. What was my horror to see, for my sight was open as strangely clear as my hearing, the beautiful Laura sitting beside Milan, his arm encircling her waist. I tried to speak, but no sound came from my lips. I shook with fear and wonder. I had surely died, I thought, just then, and this is the vision and hearing of the soul released from flesh. 'O, Milan, hear me, hear me,' I cried in anguish. But no sound of my own lips floated on the air. Nothing was heard but their words, which I was obliged to hear. And O, how my heart was turned to stone, and my brain to fire, as these words came to my ears:

“'Love her! Why, dearest Laura, whom I have adored so long, and whom chance has again brought into my path,—how can you question my affection for you,' and then I saw that he knelt at her feet!

“'I think I heard but yesterday, that you were engaged,' continued the fair and brilliant girl, at whose feet he still remained.

“'O, angel of my heart, will no words convince you that I love you beyond, above all women? I have in times past exhausted the language of love in speaking to your heart, Laura, are you heartless? I can plead no more.'

“'I saw the tears glitter on her face as purely white as marble, then her lips parted and these words fell on my ear,—

“'O, Milan, I would that I could divine my feeling towards you. My heart is full of love for you, but my reason falters, and something within me tells, I must not accept you. I feel thrills of horror at times, even when my affection turns toward you. I cannot fathom the strange mystery.' She bowed her face in her hands and wept. I saw him rise from his kneeling posture, and walk away to hide his emotions. I felt the fearful contest going on within himself, and then all grew dark. I heard no sound again, though I listened intently. I seemed back again in my form-sleep at last came to my weary senses. In dreams, then, I was walking again with him, by a beautiful lake, over which a storm had just passed, leaving a lovely rainbow arching its bosom. I felt the pressure of his hand, as he held mine, and saw his eyes beam tenderly into mine own.

“'The storm is over,' he said, 'see how the waves are tipped with golden rays.'

“Cheered by these words, I looked on the scene-the calmed lake, the bow of promise,—with a feeling of rapturous delight thrilling my whole being. Gazing thus earnestly, my attention was drawn to a curious ripple on the lake's surface. Then I beheld a female form rising from the waters, upon whose broad, white brow were these words:-Loved and Deserted. Startled by this, I turned to look upon Milan, but I saw him not. He had fled, and I was alone. All was lonely and still as death.

“Tremblingly I pursued my way back. The sun was sinking behind the hills, and darkness would overtake me before I could reach home. I quickened my speed, when suddenly I stumbled over something in my path. A light from the heavens, a flash of summer lightning revealed a grave, from which the form of a fair, sweet girl arose, and said, 'Beware! He, too, loved me, and for his love I pined and died.' The form vanished and the air seemed full of sounds of admonition, while around me appeared hosts of beings of another world. My senses reeled. I called for help, and must have cried aloud, for just then I heard my mother's voice from the adjoining room,—'What is it, Sibyl?' and when I awoke she was at my side.

“'Bring a light,' I cried, as I placed my hand on my forehead, which was cold and damp with perspiration. Mother went to her room, and returned with a candle and came to my bed side.

“I can remember her look of horror, as though it was but yesterday-and her voice when she sobbed, rather than spoke these words:-'My child, O, my poor child, what has happened?' Then she fainted.

“I learned on the morrow, that my beautiful hair had turned white; not one thread of my deep brown tresses was left, and my features too, were shrunken. That night's vision had done the work of years of suffering, and Sibyl Warner, the belle, the heiress, was no longer an object of love.

“A physician was summoned the next morning, who pronounced me suffering under mental hallucination, for I had told my mother all my strange dream or vision. I had no way to prove that my lover was treacherous, and I alone must suffer. But Laura. What was my duty towards her? was my dominant thought, even while I sat writing, a day or two after, a note to Milan, releasing him from his engagement. Vainly my mother entreated me to see him just once more. I was inexorable, and there being nothing now to bind us to Europe, we made all possible haste to return to our native land.

“Laura came to bid me good-bye. I tried to speak my fears to her, but my tongue seemed paralyzed. I kissed her warmly, and the tears flowed over her pale, lovely face. We parted. I knew she would be his bride ere long. I hoped she would be happy; but the revelation of that night led me to fear that such might not be the case.

“The first week of our voyage home was very pleasant, but soon after, a gale arose, and then a fearful storm set in. After being tossed by wind and wave five days, our ship went down. O, that morning so vividly present to my memory now. My parents were both lost. I was saved with a few of the passengers, and most of the ship's crew,—a vessel bound to my own native port, took us on board. But what was life to me then, alone, and unloved as I must ever after be.'

“It was not the Sibyl Warner who stepped on shore the day of our arrival who had left it years before; not the young girl of seventeen, but a woman, with love, trust, hope, all departed-a wreck of her former self, and yet within, a strange light glittering. As one sees, hung over dangerous, impassable ways at night, or half sunken rocks, a light telling of danger, so I had thrown over my entire being a blaze of fire, which, while it guided others, seemed to be consuming myself. I possessed what is now called 'second sight,' and could see the motives of persons, and their most secret thoughts and designs. Life became burdensome because I could not balance the power with any joy, until I learned that I must live for others and not for myself, alone.

“My father's estate was settled at last, and I had means enough to live in luxury and ease the rest of my days; but a strange inward prompting continually urged me to give up my former mode of living. I disposed of my property, exchanging it for ready money, and one day found myself penniless, through the treachery of one who professed to be my friend. I had not been allowed to learn his motives, and fraudulent designs, because, as I subsequently saw, my experience must be gained through toil and want, but when others were in danger of losing their material goods, I could readily discern their perils, and warn them.

“Since then, I have travelled years and years, following this light; when I did not, I have failed in my mission. I am not understood. This little village, to which seven years ago I found my way, has not a soul in it that knows me as anything but a 'Witch'-a diviner of events. I have sat in halls of splendor, and revealed strange things to men and women. I have visited the sick and down-trodden-and everywhere this power has gone with me, carrying comfort and light. I think my earthly mission is almost over. I seem to see a light, like the glimmer of a lamp which shines for a traveller to guide him home.”

She paused. The story was told. Margaret sat silent, too much occupied with her own deep thoughts, to look on the woman's face.

It was past midnight. The fire was out, on the hearth. A strange stillness pervaded the room. It grew oppressive. Margaret rose and went towards the old woman, who seemed to have dropped asleep. She took the withered hand in her own. It dropped lifeless. She was dead; the two whose lives had become as one by suffering, were parted. Sibyl had gone to that world where the erring are forgiven. Margaret was left to struggle on with an adverse fate, and thereby ripen for the kingdom.

The morning flooded through the narrow windows of the humble cot, and lit up the pale, dead features with a strange light. Margaret must leave. Though heeding the woman's words of warning, and resolving to avoid the stranger she had met, she saw but one course before her, and that was, to go to the city and seek refuge in some hospital, during her approaching need. She struggled with her feelings a long time at leaving the dead alone, and so irreverently, but circumstances were pressing her on; she could not do otherwise, and stepping out from the shelter, where her soul had been so deeply thrilled, she walked rapidly to the station, and sat with her veil closely drawn, awaiting the hour for the departure of the train. It came at last, though the time seemed very long to her, the more so, as she was in constant fear of being recognized, but fortunately no one saw her whom she knew.

She trembled all over, as she took her seat in the car, and saw an elegantly dressed woman enter and look about as though in search of some one; for under the “purple and fine linen” was the stranger, the willing destroyer of hundreds of young, innocent lives. To her relief, however, the woman passed on to another car, and Margaret felt as though all danger was over. It gave her a respite from her fears, that was all, for she did not know that the woman's keen eye recognized, and was quietly laying her plans to ensnare her.

One weary form was through with its earthly toil; one bark was moored to celestial shores, beyond this rough clime, this imperfect world, in which all are judged by externals. She was no longer old and wrinkled,—“But a fair maiden in her father's mansion.”

The town buried her and sold the few articles of furniture to defray expenses. Thus ended the life of one who was once the belle of a great city, the child of luxury and tender care, and her body was laid in the town lot among the graves of the poor. All supposed she died alone, at night, and a few words of real pity fell from some lips as all that remained of her on earth was borne through the streets.

Before the winter snows fell, Mrs. Armstrong planted a white rose beside her grave, remarking to her husband, that it was hard for one to die alone unloved, and a stranger to all about her. “She may have been once lovely and beloved,” she said, as she pressed the sod close about the tree. “I should not like to die away from my kindred, with none to care for my last resting place.” This done, the kind woman walked home happier for the deed of goodness she had performed, while unseen hands dropped their heavenly benedictions on her head.