Marcus looked into the thin face with polite scrutiny.  “Yes, madam,” said he, at length.  “I think I saw you on a railway train in New Jersey, over a year ago; and also in the town of—­, in that State, on the evening of a certain unfortunate exhibition.  But you are changed, in some respects, since then.”

“You would say that I am paler and thinner; and I am here to tell you why I am, and also to make all the atonement in my power for a crime that I have committed.”

Marcus Wilkeson’s first thought was of the unfathomed murder.  His startled face expressed what was passing through his mind.

The strange woman read his thoughts.  “The crime to which I refer is not the murder of Mr. Minford; of which, I may here say, I believed, from the first, that you were entirely innocent.  Crimes—­of that character, at least—­have never been known in your family.”

“All that you say, taken in connection with some curious circumstances which occurred on that railway ride, and that memorable night in New Jersey,” said Marcus, “make me intensely anxious to hear what you have to tell.  Please impart the information at once, and fully.  I call Heaven to witness, that your name, your history, the secret which you are to reveal, shall pass with me to the grave, if you desire it.”

“I accept your offer,” said she, with emotion, “though my crime is so flagrant that no publicity, no punishment would be too great for it.  Still, as full justice can be done, and reparation made, without this public disgrace, I prefer that my identity should be unknown except to you.  I think that I have but few months to live.”  The woman expelled a hacking cough.

“My story must be short,” said she, “and suited to my strength and this cough.  You probably remember Lucy Anserhoff, who was a little playmate of yours in your native village?  I see, by your nod, that you do.  I am—­she.  You may well look surprised, for there is little in my haggard face and wasted form to recall that once innocent girl.  You remember, I presume, my engagement to your brother Aurelius—­excuse my faltering, sir, for, even at this distance of time, I cannot speak of your dead brother without emotion.  It is not necessary to recall to your memory the details of your brother’s conduct to me, and how he afterward married—­another—­and moved to this city.  This early portion of my unfortunate career is well known to you, as it was to all the people of our little village.”

Here the strange visitor paused, and coughed.  The cough was dry and hollow.

She continued:  “I think I may say that I was amiable and good enough, as a child.  But your brother’s desertion changed my whole nature.  I dwelt upon one thought—­revenge.  I shudder as I confess it, but, for months, I meditated taking the life of the man who had wronged me.  I came to this city twice, and lay in wait for him; but my heart faltered, and, thank God!  I did not commit that crime.  Soon, Heaven interposed—­so