Marguerite De Lancie’s previsions had been prophetic. She had foreseen that an interview would be fatal to her resolution, and it proved fatal. Philip Helmstedt urged his suit with all the eloquence of passionate love, seconded by the dangerous advocate in Marguerite’s heart, and he won it; and in an hour after, the pair that had met so inauspiciously, parted as betrothed lovers. Mr. Helmstedt went away in deep joy, and with a sense of triumph only held in check by his habitual dignity and self-control. And Marguerite remained in that scene of the betrothal, looking, not like a loving and happy affianced bride, but rather like a demented woman, with pale face and wild, affrighted eyes, strained upward as for help, and cold hands wrung together as in an appeal, and exclaiming under her breath: “What have I done! Lord forgive me! Oh, Lord have pity on me!” And yet Marguerite De Lancie loved her betrothed with all her fiery soul. That love in a little while brought her some comfort in her strange distress. “What’s done is done,” she said, in the tone of one who would nerve her soul to some endurance, and then she went to her room, smoothed her hair, dressed for the afternoon, and through all the remainder of the day moved about, the same brilliant, sparkling Marguerite as before. In the evening the accepted suitor presented himself. And though he only mingled as before, in the train of Miss De Lancie, and acted in all respects with the greatest discretion, yet those particularly interested could read the subdued joy of his soul, and draw the proper inference. That night, when Marguerite retired to her chamber, Nellie followed her, and casting herself at once into an armchair, she broke the subject by suddenly exclaiming: “Marguerite, I do believe you have been encouraging Ironsides!” “Why do you think so--if I understand what you mean?” “Oh, from his looks! He looks as bright as a candle in a dark lantern, and as happy as if he had just slain his enemy. I do fear you have given him hopes, Marguerite.” “And why fear it?” “Oh, because, Marguerite, dear, I don’t want you to have him!” said Nellie, with a show of great tenderness. “Nonsense!” “I do not believe you will, you see, but still I fear. Oh, Marguerite, he may be high-toned, magnanimous, and all that, but he is not tender, not gentle, not loving!” “In a word--not a good nurse.” “No.” “Good! I do not want a nurse!” “Ah! Marguerite, I am afraid of Philip Helmstedt. If you only knew how he treated his sister.” “His sister! I did not even know he had one.” “I dare say not; but he has. She is in the madhouse.” “In the madhouse!”