We must return to Ida May, dear reader, and picture to you the awful woe she experienced as she turned from Hildegarde, saying. "Let me go away out of your lives; if my life could atone for what I have done, I would give it."

She scarcely heard Eugene Mallard's words, "Where you go, I must follow, for you are my wife."

She was unaware of his presence, until fleeing down the graveled walk, she heard a step behind her, and a firm hand caught her arm. Turning, she saw the man whom she had just wedded.

She drew back in fear and trembling. He noticed her action, and despite his bitter woe he could not but feel sorry for her.

"We can not undo what has been done, my poor girl," he said. "It was a terrible mistake, but we must face it bravely."

She looked up into his face with wistful eyes.

"If you would only kill me here and now, I would be so grateful to you. No one would ever know. My life is of so little account that not one in the whole world would miss me or grieve for me, and then you could marry Hildegarde!"

He drew back shocked.

"You must not speak in that way," he said. "The life of every human being is sacred. You are entitled to your life, no matter what has happened, until God calls you. I do not blame you, my poor girl, for what has happened. I only say we must try to face the future, and to see what can be done."

Before he could realize what she was about to do, she had flung herself on her knees at his feet, and covered his hands with kisses. Her heart was full of the deepest gratitude to him. He was the only being who had ever spoken kindly to her of late.

He raised her gently.

"You should not kneel to me," he said, "it is not right."

"Yes, I will!" she cried, impulsively. "You are good—you are noble. You do not curse me for what I could not help. I want to show you how bitterly I deplore what has been done! But how are you to realize it?"

While they were speaking, a few drops of rain fell from the heavens, and Ida May, looking up, said to herself that even the angels above were weeping for her.

"Come!" he said, taking her by the hand and leading her along as though she were a little child, "you can not stand out in the rain. Come with me!"

He hailed a passing cab and placed her in it.

"Where are we going?" she asked, timidly, looking up into his troubled face.

"I do not know until I have had time to think," he answered. "I have told the driver to drive about for an hour. By that time I shall have arrived at some conclusion."

The girl's dark head drooped. Great as her own sorrow was, her heart bled for the trouble which she had unintentionally caused this young man.

On and on rolled the cab. So busy was Eugene Mallard with his own troubled thoughts that he almost forgot the girl shrinking away in her corner, who was regarding him so piteously and anxiously.

Suddenly he turned to her.

"There is but one course left open to us," he said, huskily, "and that we must follow. You are my wife, and I must take you to the home that has been prepared to receive my bride."

She uttered a low cry; but before she could speak, he hastened to add:

"No advantage shall be taken of the position in which you are so strangely placed. You shall be my wife in the eyes of the world, but to me you shall be just as sacred as a sister. We will live our lives through in this way."

She bowed her head. Whatever he suggested must be wisest and best, she thought.

"Indeed, I can see no other way out of it at the present outlook," he went on, his voice trembling a little. "I will take you to a hotel near where I am stopping. To-morrow, at this time, I will come for you to take the train with me!"

A little later Ida found herself alone in the comfortable room which he had secured for her at the hotel.

It was then and not until then that the poor girl gave vent to her grief, suffering almost as deeply as did Hildegarde, as the long hours of the night passed away.

The sun was shining bright and warm when she opened her eyes the next morning. For a moment she was dazed and bewildered; then a rush of memory came to her, and she remembered all that had taken place. She sprung from her couch with a bitter sob on her lips. Some one tapped at the door. It was the chamber-maid.

"Your breakfast is to be served to you here, ma'am," she said. "The waiter is bringing it. I will take it from him. Here are also some large packages which arrived for you."

"Thank you!" murmured the girl. "Just put them on the table. But stay," she added in the next breath; "you may as well open them. I do not think they are for me."

With deft fingers the girl unwrapped the bundle, and held up to her astonished gaze a beautiful brown traveling suit of the finest cloth, with hat, shoes, gloves, and lingerie to match. Gazing upon the outfit with wide-opened eyes, she forgot her sorrow for the moment.

This was another proof of the thoughtfulness and kindness of the man whose life she had wrecked.

"What a superb traveling-dress!" cried the maid, with delight. "I have never seen anything like it. And the hat; why, it is a veritable dream, madame. It is so exquisitely dainty! There is something in the pocket of the dress!" exclaimed the maid. "Does madame wish me to see what it is?"

"Yes," said Ida.

The next moment the girl had produced a tiny box. On a bed of violet velvet reposed a band of plain gold. Within were the engraved words: "My wife!"

The poor girl caught her breath with a sob as the maid handed it to her. The color came and went on her face; her eyes grew dim with tears. It was with the greatest difficulty that she succeeded in hiding her emotion from the maid, whose eyes were intently fixed on her.

"I thought she was a single young girl," she thought, "but she seems to be married."

Ida May turned away; she could not bear to have any one see her emotion.

"I can not accept it, nor any of his gifts, because I can not make use of them," she thought. "I am going away from here, going out of his life. I could not go with him to his Southern home; I have no right there!"

When the maid came to her, and asked her if she wished all her meals served in her room, she mechanically answered, "Yes." Tempting dishes were brought, but they went back untasted.

"The lady in Room 27 seems very ill," said the chamber-maid, when she went down to the servant's hall below. "She is very mysterious. Her eyes are so big, so black, and so mournful, you are sure she is going to burst into tears at every word she utters. She looks like a creature who has passed through some great sorrow. With the exception of one lady, I never saw any-one else look like that. And oh, mercy! she had the same room too—No. 27.

"This woman left word that I was to come to her in the morning. To my great surprise, I found the door open as I turned the knob. As I went forward to awaken her, I saw the still form lying on the bed. As I approached, I saw, to my great amazement, that her eyes were wide open and staring at me.

"'I beg your pardon for not coming sooner, ma'am,' I said. 'I did not think you would be awake so early. There—'

"The rest of the sentence was never finished. I saw that the eyes staring up into mine were glazed in death. The scream I uttered brought half the people in the hotel to the scene, a physician being among them.

"He said that the young lady had been dead some hours. She had taken poison. The mystery surrounding her—who she was, and whence she came, has never been solved from that day to this. There is much the same look in this lady's face as there was in that other one's. I think she will bear watching.

"You know, too, that nine out of ten of the people who think of committing suicide choose a hotel in which to commit the deed. This young lady in No. 27 seems to be dazed. She scarcely knows what one is speaking to her about."

Having told her story, the chamber-maid left the room, shaking her head as she went. The clerk of the hotel, who was passing through the corridor, and who had heard the story was a little annoyed over it. He knew the habit of the maids to gossip; still, there might be some truth in the story.

It would certainly not be amiss to look into the matter a little. He remembered a tall and handsome gentleman had made arrangements for the lady, paying her bills in advance.

He thought he would wait a day and then speak to the proprietor concerning the matter.

The sunshine of the afternoon faded; the gloaming crept up, deepening into the soft beauty of the starry night.

As the hours rolled by, the girl made a resolve to end it all.

She arose quietly and donned the dark cloak which Miss Fernly had wrapped about her as they stepped from the rector's cottage. She was glad to have it now, for it would cover the bridal robes which she had donned. Her bridegroom was to be death!