After a time she went to the window. Great crimson roses, wet with dew,
and odorous woodbine peeped in as she opened it. The night-wind was
heavy with the perfume of the sleeping flowers, the golden stars were
shining in the sky, and she raised her pale, lovely face to the radiant
heavens.
"My God!" she prayed, "take pity on me, and before I realize what has
happened, let me die!"
"Let me die!" No other prayer went from her lips, although she sat
there from sunset until the early dawn of the new day flushed in the
glorious eastern skies.
While she sits there, with that despairing prayer rising from the depths
of her despairing heart, we will tell the story of Marian Arleigh's
penance.
CHAPTER II.
"You cannot be cruel. You cannot think it is wrong to meet me. My whole
life, with everything in it, belongs to you. If you told me to lie down
here and die at your feet, I should do so and smile. Why do you say it
is wrong, Marion?"
A lovely, child-like face was raised to the speaker.
"I do not know. I have a vague idea that anything requiring secrecy must
be wrong. Is it not so?"
He laughed.
"No, sweet. What would the great diplomatists of the world say to such a
theory? Rather try to believe that what is stolen is sweet."
She smiled, but the anxious expression still lingered on her lovely
young face. He noticed it.
"As a rule, Marion, you are quite right. Concealments are odious. But
there are exceptions--this is one--I love you; but I am only a poor
artist, struggling to make a name.
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