One by one the witnesses to the wedding dropped into the room, the servants huddling near the door; the doctor, who was gently complacent over the match, and serious over the unchanged condition of the patient; the nurse, who was allowed to forsake her charge a few minutes; the old general, who hovered near the door waiting to give away the bride, and at the last moment Laurie, in the conventional black dress-suit and white tie, and paler even than the usual scared bridegroom, a far-off look in his eyes, his lips set in tense, rigid lines that hinted despair. At the door appeared Lelia in bridal white, following her mother; and, taking her hand, the gallant old gentleman led her before the minister, where Laurie waited in dumb despair for her coming, feeling bitterly that he had been tricked and deceived into this sacrifice. Grave doubts were constantly assailing him as to whether his artful cousin had ever touched a drop of the poison. But bound in honor to the sacrifice, he stood there to utter the solemn vows binding him irrevocably to her he no longer even respected. Oh, the pity of it, the sin of it! The ceremony proceeded, every word falling like a hailstone on Laurie’s heart, while Lelia’s leaped in passionate joy. Her responses were clear and joyous, Laurie’s husky and low, scarcely intelligible. The ring was on her hand, placed there by fingers marble cold, and the minister solemnly pronounced them man and wife. She turned eagerly to receive congratulations, and her glance fell on the farthest window, where a white hand from the outside held back the lace curtain, while a wild, white face peered into the room. Lelia stood as if turned to stone a moment, then a thrilling cry burst from her convulsed lips: “I am haunted!” she shrieked, pointing wildly at the window. Every eye followed the pointing finger, every one saw the spectral face glaring in at the scene--the lovely face of Gipsy Darke, framed in dark tresses of curling hair, white as a ghost’s face ever must be. So it glimmered for a moment, then faded like a dream. CHAPTER XXV. THE MASK OF A GUILTY SOUL. If the aroused sleepers on the night of the tragedy at The Crags had but followed up the alarm, instead of ascribing the shrieks to nightmare dreams, the young girl might have been succored at once, and the current of this story turned into less tragic channels. For Lelia’s frenzied blows on the poor girl’s head had not killed her, as she believed, only stunned her into insensibility. But quite sure of her death, and fearful of discovery, the criminal fled in terror from the dreadful scene, and locked herself fast in her own room to remove the stains of her terrible deed. Tearing off her blood-stained garments, she rolled them into a tight bundle, concealing them temporarily till she could find an opportunity to consign them to the flames.