ill. Exhausted with watching, Margaret found an opportunity to rest,

and went down stairs to the library, meeting Sybil Chase in the hall.

"Will you go and sit with my uncle for a while, Miss Chase?" she asked, wearily.

"Certainly," replied Sybil, somewhat flurried after her escape from the garden, but concealing her emotion with her usual success. "You look quite worn out; it would do you good to sleep."

Margaret passed on without vouchsafing a reply; her dislike of the woman had grown into absolute aversion during the past days, and it was with difficulty that she could force herself to receive her advances with common civility.

Margaret entered the library, closed the door and threw herself upon a couch, hoping for a time to forget her distress and bitter feelings in slumber. She fell asleep at once, and was aroused from an incoherent dream by the violent opening of the door, and a hoarse voice called out:

"Margaret--Margaret Waring?"

She started up, confused by the abrupt awakening, and with a vague impression that her uncle had been taken suddenly worse; but she saw Laurence standing before her, livid with passion. Margaret rose at once, and coldly said:

"Mr. Laurence, you will please come into a room which I occupy, somewhat less boisterously."

"I grieve exceedingly to have disturbed your delicate nerves," he replied, with a hoarse laugh; "but I have that to say which will possibly shock them still more."

She gave him a haughty glance, which roused his fury to still greater violence.

"Nothing you could do would shock me," she said. "I am prepared for any thing."

"Then you are prepared to hear that I have discovered your falsehood and treachery! Miserable, cowardly girl, why did you not come frankly and tell me the truth?"

Her pride rose to meet the passion which flamed in his eyes.

"Mr. Laurence," she exclaimed, "I have borne a great deal from you; but you shall not insult me in this house!"

"Why did you not say to me frankly--I detest this marriage?" he continued. "Do you think I would not have freed you at once?"

"I do not know what you mean," she answered, trembling with angry astonishment at his words. "But let me tell you now, I do dread it--loathe the very thought of it."

"So this you wrote to him," he exclaimed. "I have seen the letter! Why, shame on you, Margaret Waring! I would not have believed you thus lost to all womanly pride. What! tell man unsought that you loved him? and you honorably bound to another."

She stared at him in angry surprise--her lips apart, her wild eyes full of scornful incredulity.

"You have been dreaming, or you are crazy," she said.

"Neither the one nor the other; but I know every thing."

"I do not understand you," she replied, relapsing into the haughty coldness which always enraged him more than any bitter words that she could speak.

"Oh, do not add another falsehood to the list!" he exclaimed. "Haven't you perjured your soul enough, already? I tell you that I read the letter you wrote to Ralph Hinchley. I have watched you for weeks; I know the whole extent of your shameful duplicity."

"Stop!" cried Margaret. "I will endure no more! Leave this house, Mr. Laurence, at once, and forever! While we both live, I will never see your face again; my uncle decides this night, between you and me; either he confirms what I now say, or I will leave his house."

"So be it; do not think I regret it! Why, I came here only to expose and cast you off. Your uncle shall see that letter. I will have it, or tear it from Hinchley's heart. When Waring has read that, we shall see what he thinks of his dainty niece."

"Of all this passion I do not comprehend one word; but it wearies me. Go, sir."

"Do you dare deny having written to Ralph Hinchley that you loved him--that you were ready to abandon your engagement and marry him?"

"Oh!" groaned Margaret, almost fainting from a sharp recoil of outraged feeling, "is there no man living who will avenge me on this libeler?"

"He may, perhaps, avenge you; why not?" retorted Laurence; "but answer. You shall answer and confess this duplicity, or blacken your soul with another lie. Did you write to Hinchley?"

"I did," said Margaret; "a note of three lines, asking him to pay a bill for me at Desmond's."

"Margaret! Margaret! this effrontery only makes it more unbearable," he cried. "I will expose you to the whole world."

"Do what you please--say what you choose, but leave this house, and never let me see you again."

"I go willingly. Farewell forever, Margaret! I do not curse; time will do that, and I can wait."

He dashed out of the room, pale and fierce with contending passions, and hurried from her presence.

Margaret stood upright until the door closed, then her hands fell to her side, a low moan broke from her lips, and she dropped senseless upon the couch.

It was near sunset when she came to herself again; Sybil Chase was bending over her, bathing her forehead and using words of tender solicitude, while a little way off stood the new housekeeper, apparently quite overcome with distress.

Margaret pushed Miss Chase away, and would have left the room without a word, but Sybil caught her arm, while a strange light shot into her eyes.

"I must detain you a moment," she said. "Your uncle has been seized with a frightful attack; the physician is with him now."

"What caused it?" demanded Margaret.

"Mr. Laurence was with him," faltered Sybil.

Margaret turned upon her with cold scrutiny.

"Miss Chase," she said, "I believe on my soul that you are at the bottom of all this trouble. I desire you to quit the house at once."

Sybil pleaded, wept, and demanded an explanation, but Margaret broke from her, and hurried out of the room.

"What is to come now?" whispered the woman, going close to Sybil, who stood looking after Margaret, and smiling as only women like her can smile.

"She has done exactly what I desired," she answered. "I shall leave this house in an hour; you will go with me."

"But the duel?"

"Oh! that drives me frantic; but I believe Hinchley will be the sufferer--I should go mad else! Pack my things, and meet me at the station in an hour."

She hurried away, without giving the woman time to speak, and left the house at once.

Sybil took her way rapidly through the grounds, crossed the high road, and ran through the fields until she reached a lofty ascent, from whence she could command a view of the broad sandy plain beneath.

She was only just in time; there she stood, and gazed below with the same expression her face had worn upon the night when she watched her husband's frightful death in the wilds of California.

Only a few paces from each other stood Laurence and Ralph Hinchley; each held a pistol in his hand, and even as Sybil looked, one of the seconds gave the word.

There was a simultaneous report, a blinding flash, and when the smoke cleared away, Sybil saw Hinchley stretched upon the ground, the two assistants bending over him, and Laurence standing in his old position.

She heard one of the men say:

"Save yourself, Laurence;" then Hinchley called out:

"Not yet--not yet; it is only my arm; there is no danger. Edward, believe me, Margaret never wrote that letter. Keep her name out of this quarrel. It will yet be explained."

Laurence only replied by a gesture of dissent. The seconds raised the wounded man, bore him to a carriage which was stationed a little way off, placed him upon the seat, and the party drove away.

Laurence stood like a statue, gazing moodily upon the pistol he grasped in his hand.

Sybil hurried down the bank, calling out:

"Laurence! Laurence!"

He turned at her approach, flung the pistol away, and caught her in his arms.

"I am revenged," he said. "I have nothing left in the world but you, Sybil Chase. Oh, say that you love me!"

The long expected moment had arrived, and, regardless of the sins by which that painful bliss had been purchased, Sybil Chase folded her white arms around his neck and gave passionate expression to the wild love that had burned in her heart for years.

Now the great object of her misguided life was attained. She was free from the man who had been a terrible barrier between them. The engagement was broken by her own arts. With all this, why was there so much pain left in her heart? Why did she tremble so violently in the first clasp of his arms?