“Yes; I’ll tell you all about it. It was before he went away the last time. His sister Agnes was then eighteen; they lived together. She was engaged to poor Hertford, the son of the notorious defaulter, who was no defaulter when that engagement was made. Agnes and Hertford were within a few days of their marriage when the father’s embezzlements were discovered. Now poor young Hertford was not in the least implicated, yet as soon as his father’s disgrace was made manifest, Philip Helmstedt, as the guardian of his sister, broke off the marriage.” “He could have done no otherwise,” said Marguerite. “In spite of her pledged word? In spite of her prayers and tears, and distracted grief?” “He could have done no otherwise,” repeated Marguerite, though her face grew very pale. “That was not all. The lovers met, arranged a flight, and were about to escape, when Philip Helmstedt discovered them. He insulted the young man, struck him with his riding whip across the face, and bore his fainting sister home. The next day the two men met in a duel.” “They could have done no otherwise. It was the bloody code of honor!” reiterated Marguerite, yet her very lips were white, as she leaned forward against the top of Nellie’s chair. “Hertford lost his right arm, and Agnes lost--her reason!” “My God!” “Yes; ‘a plague o’ honor,’ I say.” “Dear Nellie, leave me now; my head aches, and I am tired.” Nellie, accustomed to such abrupt dismissions, kissed her friend and retired. “Honor, honor, honor,” repeated Marguerite, when left alone. “Oh, Moloch of civilization, when will you be surfeited?” The next morning Philip Helmstedt called, sent up his card to Miss De Lancie, and was not denied her presence. “Show the gentleman into the music-room, and say that I will see him there, John,” was the direction given by Miss De Lancie, who soon descended thither. Mr. Helmstedt arose to meet her, and wondered at her pale, worn look. “I hope you are in good health this morning, dear Marguerite,” he said, offering to salute her. But she waved him off, saying: “No! I am ill! And I come to you, this morning, Philip Helmstedt, to implore you to restore the promise wrenched from me yesterday,” she said, and sunk, pallid and exhausted, upon the nearest chair. A start and an attitude of astounded amazement was his only reply. A pause of a moment ensued, and Marguerite repeated: “Will you be so generous as to give me back my plighted faith, Philip Helmstedt?” “Marguerite! has nature balanced her glorious gift to you with a measure of insanity?” he inquired, at length, but without abatement of his astonishment. “I sometimes think so. I do mad things occasionally. And the maddest thing I ever did, save one, was to give you that pledge yesterday.” “Thank you, fairest lady.” “And I ask you now to give it back to me.” “For what reason?” “I can give you none!” “No reason for your strange request?” “None!” “Then I assure you, my dearest Marguerite, that I am not mad.”