Long hours after the woman left the room, Ida May sat by the window looking out into the darkness, and trying to fathom what seemed to her the greatest kind of a mystery.

Why should Frank Garrick take interest enough in her to have her brought here and to pay money for having her retained here? What interest could he have in her?

He had vowed a terrible vengeance upon her when she repulsed his offer of love. But why should his vengeance have taken this form? What benefit could it be to him to shut her in from the world?

As Ida sat there in the waning light, her eyes fell upon a piece of newspaper in the open fire-place.

"I will wrap up my few belongings in that," she muttered, "and then set about making my way out of this place."

As she smoothed out the half sheet, a few lines midway down one of the columns held her spell-bound as they caught her eye.

For a moment she stared at the words. They seemed to fairly turn the heart in her bosom to stone, for they read as follows:

"The engagement is announced of Miss Florence St. John, of No. —, Fifth Avenue, daughter of Mrs. J. St. John, to Mr. Royal Ainsley, of New York. The wedding will take place at Peekskill, on the Hudson, a month from date."

As she read it, the room seemed to whirl around her. With a cry so piteous that it seemed it must reach God's ear, the poor girl sunk on her knees.

Her husband about to marry another!

No matter what the world might say, she had married him in good faith. He was hers; he belonged to her before Heaven and all the world.

She wrung her hands wildly.

"The marriage must not take place! I must save the man I love from himself and the anger of the watching angels!" she cried.

She prayed wildly that she might not be too late.

Her hat and cloak were hanging on a peg near the door. She took them down, and her hands trembled so that she could hardly put them on. Her knees trembled, and she felt faint. But she summoned all her strength, and reached the door and turned the knob. But it was locked on the outside.

Her weak hands were powerless to force the door. She crept back to the window and threw open the sash. All that she could behold was a dense mass of trees.

A sturdy oak grew close to the window, its great branches spread out invitingly before her. It was a desperate chance to take in order to reach the ground, which was fully thirty feet below.

Would her strength give way? Dare she take the terrible risk?

"I must! I must!" she cried. "Heaven will protect me!"

Without stopping to debate the matter further, lest she should lose courage, the poor girl climbed with difficulty out on the broad sill and grasped one of the boughs.

Would it bear her weight?

The great bough creaked with its unaccustomed weight, slight as it was, then shot downward.

In the old days at home Ida May had been accustomed to climb trees and to swing about in their branches. She realized that when the bough bent its entire length earthward she must let go her hold, or it would carry her quickly up again. She let go her hold when she felt that the bough of the tree had bent to its utmost. Quickly she fell downward, and Ida May, stunned and helpless for a moment, found herself lying in the long green grass.

She had scarcely fallen three feet, yet the shock had stunned her.

She knew that she must be on some country road. Afar in the distance she could distinctly see rows of glimmering lights. Those she knew must be the lights of the city. She must reach it and find the house on Fifth Avenue before she dared give herself a moment's rest.

She reached the outskirts of the city at last, and crept on toward its great throbbing heart.

Like one in a dream, Ida May saw a tall, thin woman and a young girl, who appeared to be her maid, step from a carriage.

She tried to get out of their way, but if her very life had depended upon it, she could not have done so. The tall woman and Ida May jostled against each other.

With a sharp exclamation of anger, the lady turned upon her. But at that moment Ida reeled, and, with a piteous moan, fell senseless at her feet.

"Well, well! here's a pretty howdy-do!" exclaimed the tall, angular woman. "Here, John!" she called to the footman, who was just shutting the door of the vehicle, "pick up this poor creature, and carry her into the house. It appears I have knocked her down. I hope no bones are broken."

The house into which Ida May was carried was a very small cottage, occupied by a poor laborer and his wife, who were the parents of a little one who was ill but was slowly convalescing.

The wealthy spinster and her maid often called to bring some fruit or medicine to the child.

Miss Fernly was not fair to look upon, but she had a heart of gold. She was quite eccentric; but her purse was always open to the wants of the needy.

"Leave the room instantly," she said to her maid. "Run out and tell the coachman to go for the nearest doctor, and to fetch him back with him at once!"

It seemed an age until the doctor arrived. Everything in human power was done to render the sufferer comfortable.

It was early morn when the doctor departed—and there had come into this great world of sorrow a dark-eyed little stranger—a tiny little one, with a lovely face like its mother's.

"Will it live?" cried the young mother, as she listened breathlessly to its faint little wails.

"I am afraid not," replied the doctor pityingly. "We can only hope."

"Oh, if it would only die—only die!" sobbed the girl's mother. "The world is so cold and so dark!"

Miss Fernly drew back, shocked and pained.

"You must not wish for anything like that to happen," she said, "for God might take you at your word."

For ten long and weary days the hapless young mother lay with her face to the wall, crying out to Heaven to take her and her baby from this cruel world.

In great fear, the doctor had taken charge of the little one, and conveyed it to a near-by foundling asylum. Its presence seemed to irritate the hapless young mother, who was already in a high fever.

Miss Fernly called every day at the cottage, to see how her latest charge was progressing.

She had taken a strange interest in the girl whose identity seemed shrouded in such profound mystery.