She trembled all over, as she took her seat in the car, and saw an elegantly dressed woman enter and look about as though in search of some one; for under the “purple and fine linen” was the stranger, the willing destroyer of hundreds of young, innocent lives. To her relief, however, the woman passed on to another car, and Margaret felt as though all danger was over. It gave her a respite from her fears, that was all, for she did not know that the woman's keen eye recognized, and was quietly laying her plans to ensnare her.
One weary form was through with its earthly toil; one bark was moored to celestial shores, beyond this rough clime, this imperfect world, in which all are judged by externals. She was no longer old and wrinkled,—“But a fair maiden in her father's mansion.”
The town buried her and sold the few articles of furniture to defray expenses. Thus ended the life of one who was once the belle of a great city, the child of luxury and tender care, and her body was laid in the town lot among the graves of the poor. All supposed she died alone, at night, and a few words of real pity fell from some lips as all that remained of her on earth was borne through the streets.
Before the winter snows fell, Mrs. Armstrong planted a white rose beside her grave, remarking to her husband, that it was hard for one to die alone unloved, and a stranger to all about her. “She may have been once lovely and beloved,” she said, as she pressed the sod close about the tree. “I should not like to die away from my kindred, with none to care for my last resting place.” This done, the kind woman walked home happier for the deed of goodness she had performed, while unseen hands dropped their heavenly benedictions on her head.
CHAPTER XVII.
In a small parlor in the city of Berlin, where, fifty years ago, young Sibyl's heart had thrilled to words of love, sat a party of young men, over their wine, while mirth and song flowed freely.
Light-hearted, and free from care, they had met to pass the evening hours, with songs and wondrous tales.
“Come my good fellows,” said the eldest, who appeared to be the leader of the group, “we must relate our stories, as the hours are waning. Krepsel, we will hear from you first, to-night.”