Daisy drew her cloak closer about her, and her thick veil more securely over her face. As she raised the huge brass knocker her heart beat pitifully, yet she told herself she must be brave to the bitter end. One, two, three minutes passed. Was no one coming to answer the summons? Yes--some one came at last, a spruce little French maid, whom Daisy never remembered having seen before. She laughed outright when Daisy falteringly stated her errand. "You are mad to think mademoiselle will see you to-night," she answered, contemptuously. "Do you not know this is her wedding-night?" "She is not married _yet_?" cried Daisy, in a low, wailing voice. "Oh, I must see her!" With a quizzical expression crossing her face the girl shrugged her shoulders, as she scanned the little dark, dripping figure, answering mockingly: "The poor make one grand mistake, insisting on what the rich must do. I say again, my lady will not see you--you had better go about your business." "Oh, I _must_ see her! indeed, I must!" pleaded Daisy. "Your heart, dear girl, is human, and you can see my anguish is no light one." Her courage and high resolve seemed to give way, and she wept--as women weep only once in a lifetime--but the heart of the French maid was obdurate. "Mademoiselle would only be angry," she said; "it would be as much as my place is worth to even mention you to her." "But my errand can brook no delay," urged Daisy. "You do not realize," she gasped, brokenly, while her delicate frame was shaken with sobs, and the hot tears fell like rain down her face. "All that you say is useless," cried the girl, impatiently, as she purposely obstructed the passage-way, holding the doorknob in her hand; "all your speech is in vain--she will not see you, I say--I will not take her your message." "Then I will go to her myself," cried Daisy, in desperate determination. "What's the matter, Marie?" cried a shrill voice from the head of the rose-lighted stairway; "what in the world keeps you down there so long? Come here instantly." Daisy knew too well the handsome, impatient face and the imperious, commanding voice. "Miss Hurlhurst," she called out, piteously, "I must see you for a few minutes. I shall die if you refuse me. My errand is one of almost life and death; if you knew how vitally important it was you would not refuse me," she panted. Pluma Hurlhurst laughed a little hard laugh that had no music in it. "What would a hundred lives or deaths matter to me?" she said, contemptuously. "I would not listen to you ten minutes to-night if I actually knew it was to save your life," cried the haughty beauty, stamping her slippered foot impatiently. "It is for your own sake," pleaded Daisy. "See, I kneel to you, Miss Hurlhurst. If you would not commit a crime, I implore you by all you hold sacred, to hear me--grant me but a few brief moments." "Not an instant," cried Pluma, scornfully; "shut the door, Marie, and send that person from the house."