"The first week of our voyage home was very pleasant, but soon after, a gale arose, and then a fearful storm
set in. After being tossed by wind and wave five days, our ship went down. O, that morning so vividly present
to my memory now. My parents were both lost. I was saved with a few of the passengers, and most of the
ship's crew,--a vessel bound to my own native port, took us on board. But what was life to me then, alone, and
unloved as I must ever after be.'
"It was not the Sibyl Warner who stepped on shore the day of our arrival who had left it years before; not the
young girl of seventeen, but a woman, with love, trust, hope, all departed-a wreck of her former self, and yet
within, a strange light glittering. As one sees, hung over dangerous, impassable ways at night, or half sunken
rocks, a light telling of danger, so I had thrown over my entire being a blaze of fire, which, while it guided
others, seemed to be consuming myself. I possessed what is now called 'second sight,' and could see the
motives of persons, and their most secret thoughts and designs. Life became burdensome because I could not
balance the power with any joy, until I learned that I must live for others and not for myself, alone.
"My father's estate was settled at last, and I had means enough to live in luxury and ease the rest of my days;
but a strange inward prompting continually urged me to give up my former mode of living. I disposed of my
property, exchanging it for ready money, and one day found myself penniless, through the treachery of one
who professed to be my friend. I had not been allowed to learn his motives, and fraudulent designs, because,
as I subsequently saw, my experience must be gained through toil and want, but when others were in danger
of losing their material goods, I could readily discern their perils, and warn them.
"Since then, I have travelled years and years, following this light; when I did not, I have failed in my mission.
I am not understood. This little village, to which seven years ago I found my way, has not a soul in it that
knows me as anything but a 'Witch'-a diviner of events. I have sat in halls of splendor, and revealed strange
things to men and women. I have visited the sick and down-trodden-and everywhere this power has gone with
me, carrying comfort and light. I think my earthly mission is almost over. I seem to see a light, like the
glimmer of a lamp which shines for a traveller to guide him home."
She paused. The story was told. Margaret sat silent, too much occupied with her own deep thoughts, to look
on the woman's face.
It was past midnight. The fire was out, on the hearth. A strange stillness pervaded the room. It grew
oppressive. Margaret rose and went towards the old woman, who seemed to have dropped asleep. She took the
withered hand in her own. It dropped lifeless. She was dead; the two whose lives had become as one by
suffering, were parted. Sibyl had gone to that world where the erring are forgiven. Margaret was left to
struggle on with an adverse fate, and thereby ripen for the kingdom.
The morning flooded through the narrow windows of the humble cot, and lit up the pale, dead features with a
strange light. Margaret must leave. Though heeding the woman's words of warning, and resolving to avoid the
stranger she had met, she saw but one course before her, and that was, to go to the city and seek refuge in
some hospital, during her approaching need. She struggled with her feelings a long time at leaving the dead
alone, and so irreverently, but circumstances were pressing her on; she could not do otherwise, and stepping
out from the shelter, where her soul had been so deeply thrilled, she walked rapidly to the station, and sat with
her veil closely drawn, awaiting the hour for the departure of the train. It came at last, though the time seemed
very long to her, the more so, as she was in constant fear of being recognized, but fortunately no one saw her
whom she knew.
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.
CHAPTER XVI. 66