CHAPTER X.

BROKEN.

It was a hard thing to say to Tessie, who knew nothing of Ange’s love for Charteris, but it was wrung from me in the extremity of my fear and pity for the child.

Tessie naturally demanded an explanation of my words, and then and there I made a clean breast of it, telling her what I had seen and heard, and how I had told her father of my discovery, and the unsatisfactory result of my communication.

We flew into each other’s arms when the recital was finished, and wept together over the misery of it all, as it behoved us, like true friends and sisters, to do.

‘And now, Tessie!’ I said, as I wiped my streaming eyes, ‘hide nothing from me. Let me know how much she heard and how she heard it, that we may be able to judge what is best to do to avert the consequences from her.’

‘I never left her side for a minute,’ sobbed Tessie, ‘but Sophy Markham pushed her way into the bedroom, and I could not turn her out. Ange was lying just as you left her, quite still and quiet, with her eyes fixed upon the ceiling. I whispered her condition to Miss Markham, and cautioned her to speak in a low voice, and I believe she did so. She was full of the news of Mr. Charteris turning out to be a married man, and of the shock it was to her; and how he had spent all his evenings lately in the billiard-room of the Hôtel d’Etoile, and everybody had remarked upon his pronounced attentions to herself. She was talking a great deal of nonsense about wishing she had a brother to bring him to book for his scandalous behaviour to her, though I don’t believe a word of all that, you know, Hilda.’

‘I should think not, my dear! Cave Charteris may be a villain, but he is not a fool. But go on. What did Ange say to it all?’

‘She never said a word; but as Miss Markham was running on at this rate, I thought I heard a rustle on the bed, and, turning round, I saw Ange sitting bolt upright with her eyes fixed upon us. Oh, Hilda! her face looked dreadful! You would never have forgotten it. It seemed as if her cheeks and her jaws had suddenly fallen in. I rushed to her side and laid her down again, and she never uttered a syllable, but only stared at me with those melancholy wide-open eyes. I hurried Miss Markham out of the room, although I knew nothing of what you have now told me, and had no idea that Ange’s appearance was due to anything she had said. Oh! do you really think it will hurt her?’

‘How is she now, Tessie?’

‘I think she must be asleep, but I cannot tell. She began to moan so, that I got frightened, and ran down here to watch for your return.’

‘Let us go to her at once; and mind, not a word, even to one another, of this wretched business. We must hope that Ange did not hear or understand it, or that, if she did, she may forget it again. It is most important to keep the news from her till she is stronger. I am afraid that, at the best, it will prove a terrible blow to her.’

We hastened back to the bed-chamber, but there was no apparent change in our patient. She still lay on her side, staring into vacancy and occasionally moaning in a low tone to herself. I felt her head and hands; they were burning hot, and her lips had become dry and cracked. There was no doubt of it—Ange was in a raging fever, and every hour we became more alarmed.

‘What a mistake it is to live such a distance from a doctor!’ I exclaimed impatiently, as the evening drew on. ‘I wish I had gone into Artois myself by the diligence this afternoon, or sent Charlie Sandilands, and got Monsieur Perrin to ride over to-night. Is there no help nearer at hand, Tessie? Cannot the _petites sœurs_ administer medicines on an emergency?’

‘I never heard of their doing so, Hilda. Monsieur Perrin is their hospital surgeon. If it were not for the convent, I don’t think we should get him in St. Pucelle at all.’

‘Just listen to her moans!’ I said, in despair. ‘Do ask Madame Marmoret to bring up another pitcher of spring water, Tessie. We must keep wet bandages round her head continually. I know of nothing better to do.’

With dinner-time came home Cave Charteris from shooting, and hearing the state of affairs upstairs from Madame Marmoret, he asked to speak to me. One may fancy the blazing eyes with which I went to meet him.

‘What do you want?’ I demanded brusquely, as I entered the little _salle_.

‘Only to hear how much of this sad account that Madame has given me is true. Is it really the case that Mr. Lovett has gone to Rille, and Ange is so ill she can see nobody?’

‘Certainly, she can see nobody. She is in a strong fever, and confined to her bed. Have you anything more to say?’

‘Yes! That I am not aware what I have done that you should speak to me in such an uncourteous manner!’

‘Are you not? Then you must have a tougher conscience than even I gave you credit for.’

‘What do you mean, Miss Marsh?’ he inquired. ‘You appear to resent my taking an ordinary interest in Miss Lovett’s health. If you knew all, you would see that——’

‘I _do_ know all!’ I interrupted him sternly, ‘and a great deal more than you have any idea of. I know that you are a married man, and that you had much better be at home with your wife and children than affecting this interest in a girl who can never be anything to you _again_.’

I put in _again_, that he might see we had already guessed something of his philandering with poor Ange.

‘Has _she_ heard of this?’ he asked me quickly, with the colour flaming in his face.

‘What is that to you?’ I replied angrily; ‘if you are an honest man, why should you be ashamed to tell the world that you are a married one? I refuse to inform you if Ange has heard the truth or not, but you may rest assured that she will not hear it from you. Her father will be home to-morrow, and the first thing I shall do will be to caution him to protect the interests of his daughter!’

Something very like an oath passed Mr. Charteris’s lips at this juncture, but he was at my mercy.

‘You are shooting very wide of the mark,’ he replied, with an attempt at nonchalance, ‘and, forgive me for adding, talking of what you know nothing. I am not in the habit of confiding the details of my domestic life to everybody I meet in this world, but had the fact of my marriage been likely to affect Mr. Lovett or his daughters, I should certainly have announced it. Since you refuse to gratify my curiosity any further, may I ask to see Miss Lovett?’

‘She will not consent to see you,’ I replied, ‘for she is as well aware as I am of the way in which you have treated her sister.’

‘Under these circumstances, I presume that I had better relieve you both of my presence until Mr. Lovett’s return.’

‘You can do as you choose about that,’ I said, as I left him standing there and took my way upstairs again.

In another minute he had passed into the street and was on his road, as I concluded, to the Hôtel d’Etoile, where he had been in the habit of spending his evenings since Armand had given up playing cards; and Madame Marmoret informed me that he did not return to the house that night.

It was a sad and anxious vigil that we spent beside the bedside of poor Ange, who, towards the small hours, began to toss her arms and head about and mutter rapid incoherent words of which we could not catch the import.

As morning dawned, she lay more quiet, but the cruel fever still raged on, and she was very, very weak.

‘How soon can the doctor arrive, Tessie?’ I inquired, as we met over a melancholy breakfast at a side-table in the kitchen. ‘When does the diligence come in?’

‘At eleven o’clock, Hilda. It is the only one, you know, so they are both sure to be with us by that time. What a comfort it will be to have papa at home once more!’

We sat together, anxiously waiting the advent of the diligence, and scarcely daring to make a surmise as to the probable issue of the doctor’s verdict on our poor little sister’s case.

Eleven o’clock struck! Half-past eleven, and then there was a sound of feet in the _salle_ below. I did not stop to let Madame Marmoret announce any names, but flew past her on the stairs and into the room. Neither Monsieur Perrin nor Mr. Lovett awaited me there. The new arrival was Mr. Warrington. In my astonishment at seeing him, I forgot for a moment the absence of the others.

‘Why! Mr. Warrington! You are the last person in the world I expected to see.’

‘And yet I sent Miss Hilda notice of my intended visit,’ he answered, shaking hands with me.

‘True! but not of the probable time. However, I am very glad you are come. If I needed your advice when I wrote to you, I want it tenfold more now. I am in a sad tangle and perplexity, Mr. Warrington.’

‘Sorry to hear that! I must have a long talk with your trustee about your financial concerns. I have come over for no other purpose. Do you wish your money to remain invested as it is at present?’

‘No, I think not. The fact is, Mr. Warrington, I—I—(I have not told the Lovetts yet, as it is no concern of theirs) but—I am engaged to be married.’

‘Hallo! That is sharp work, Miss Hilda. Not to a foreigner, I hope!’

‘Now, Mr. Warrington, I thought you would be above such vulgar prejudice. He _is_ a foreigner—Baron Armand de Nesselrode—but he is better than all the Englishmen put together.’

‘Oh! that of course. And do you intend to settle your income upon this gentlemen, then?’

‘I have not decided that yet; but I do want to have it transferred to my own keeping. And oh! Mr. Warrington, you will have to pay a few debts of Mr. Lovett’s out of it too, because I promised the poor people I would be responsible for their money.’

At this announcement the solicitor looked grave.

‘We must speak further on that subject, Miss Hilda. I can do nothing in a hurry. Where is Mr. Lovett, and how soon shall I be able to see him?’

Then I remembered that my guardian ought to have arrived with the doctor from Rille by the same conveyance as Mr. Warrington had travelled in.

‘Why, he was at Rille, and didn’t he come with you in the diligence?’ I exclaimed hastily. ‘An old man with white hair and very blue eyes, and accompanied by a foreign doctor?’

‘No; there were no gentry at all in the diligence. Only a few peasants and a sister of mercy.’

‘What can have delayed them?’ I said, in distress. ‘We are in great trouble here to-day, Mr. Warrington. The youngest Miss Lovett was taken ill yesterday, and we have no medical assistance nearer than Rille. I wrote to her father by last night’s post, begging him to return this morning and bring a doctor with him, and I cannot imagine what should have prevented their arrival. What shall we do?’

‘Is the case serious, then?’

‘I fear it is—very serious!’

‘Can I do nothing to help you, Miss Hilda?’

‘Nothing, thank you, Mr. Warrington! We can but watch her and wait. Are you staying at the Etoile?’

‘No, at the Cloche. The other looked too noisy for me. I will say good-bye now, then, as you are busy, and you must let me know as soon as Mr. Lovett returns.’

‘I will—good-bye!’

I was so glad to see the last of the dear little man who looked as dapper as if he had travelled up from London in a sealed envelope, for my mind was too much occupied to attend to him. As soon as ever his back was turned, I flew to Tessie to speculate on what unforeseen accident could possibly have occurred to prevent her father joining us.

But speculation was of no use. We were utterly helpless. Wringing our hands would not abate one breath of the dreadful fever that was burning in Ange’s veins. All we could do was to pray to God.

Madame Marmoret had spread the news through St. Pucelle, and many a poor peasant woman came up that afternoon and pleaded for admission, only just to look upon the face of _petite_ Ange. But I would let no one pass the threshold of her door, for her delirium was now at its height, and she talked continually.

Tessie, who had no stamina, looked worn out with one night’s watching; and I persuaded her to go to my room and sleep, whilst I sat with her sister. It was a melancholy task to listen to the poor child’s ravings, and I had to call up all my dearest thoughts of Armand, and to try and look steadily forward to the future that was opening for me, in order to keep my courage up to the sticking-point.

‘I do not believe it,’ Ange muttered rapidly—‘I do not believe it. I cannot believe it! He is _not_ married. Well, then, I will ask him myself. Where is he? At the Hôtel d’Etoile. I will go at once and ask him. It is but a step. What do my bare feet signify! I do not feel the stones. I only want to ask Cave if he is married. Yes, yes, I will go at once!’ and in a moment she was half out of bed, with her fevered feet upon the floor.

‘Dear, _dear_ Ange!’ I expostulated with her. ‘Get into bed again! Where would you go to, my darling? You are not dressed. You cannot leave the room. You must lie down like a good child and go to sleep.’

She stared at me as if I had been a stranger.

‘Who is it? Why would you keep me? I do not mind the cold. I must go to the Hôtel d’Etoile. Sophy says he is there every evening, and perhaps he is waiting for me. He used to be angry sometimes because I did not go to meet him; but I was afraid papa would hear of it. And papa is so good! Oh, he is so good! so good! He is like a bright saint from heaven. Do you believe he would do anybody a wrong? If people tell lies, that is not his fault. He has a glory round his head. Now it is a rainbow bridge, stretching right into heaven! Let me climb up it—up—up—up—till we go through the shining gates together! But there is such a pain in my head! It dazzles me to look at them.’

‘Lie down, my darling Ange! and let me bathe your poor head with this cold water.’

‘Oh, sister Celeste, is it you? I have not finished the priest’s vestment yet, _ma sœur_. There are so many stitches in it, and the gold thread sparkles so, it makes my head ache. But I shall finish it soon! very, very soon! and then dear papa shall pay Cave the hundred and twenty-five francs he owes him. They will give me all that, will they not, _ma sœur_—and perhaps more? Yes, yes; I know—you said so; and then Cave shall have one hundred and twenty-five francs—one hundred and twenty-five francs—one hundred and twenty-five francs! Oh, don’t ask me to count them over any more! They shine so, they make my head ache!’

So this was the secret of the little maid’s daily visits to the convent. She had been assisting the nuns in the embroidery orders they executed for the church, with the intention of paying back to Cave Charteris the money her father had borrowed from him.

Sweet, tender, self-denying little heart! Had it broken in the effort to sacrifice itself?

‘Oh, Cave!’ she screamed suddenly, as the fever made a fiercer grasp upon her brain, ‘tell me you are _not_ married! You cannot be! It is impossible, because you love me so! And you are going to tell papa! You have promised me that you will tell papa directly you receive that letter from England. Why can’t you tell him now? Is he busy? Who are those people in the yard? How fierce and strange their faces look! Do they want to kill him? Oh, Cave, save my father! save my poor father! Look at all the wolves round him! Save him from the wolves!’

She was becoming so terribly excited, that I was obliged to hold her down in her bed by main force.

‘Down, down!’ I heard her mutter. ‘Look at the gold pressing me down—till I sink into the earth! Napoleons—bright yellow Napoleons! How nice and cool they feel! but they are very heavy—much too heavy for me! I am not very old, you see. I was eighteen on the day I had those silver earrings you like so much—and you are thirty! How can you love me when I am so much younger than yourself? Yet you do, don’t you? You have sworn it so many times! Oh yes, yes; I understand. You needn’t be afraid. I shan’t tell Hilda!’

The fever was running so high, and the dear child was becoming so violent, that I felt desperate. What could I do to quiet her? I had a bottle of laudanum in my room that I kept in the event of toothache, and I poured twenty or thirty drops of it in a little water, and gave it her to drink.

Rightly or wrongly done, it had the effect of making her doze off for an hour, during which time I sat with bated breath and folded hands, lest I should disturb the charm.

At seven o’clock Tessie crawled into the room again, looking like a washed-out rag. She seemed as if she wanted almost as much care as her sister, although I do not believe she at all realised the danger Ange was in.

‘Oh, I am so weary!’ were the first words she said to me.

‘I see you are. Well, look here, Tessie: I am going downstairs now to make you a good strong cup of coffee, and then I shall lie down till twelve o’clock, when you must come and call me again.’

‘Oh, that won’t be fair, Hilda! You sat up all last night.’

‘Never mind! I am stronger than you are, and a few hours’ rest will make me quite fresh. Ange is sleeping quietly now, and I hope she may continue to do so. But, at any rate, you are to wake me at twelve.’

Notwithstanding my boasted strength, however, I was very glad to close my eyes in sleep; for to hold a night’s vigil is very trying when one is unaccustomed to it. But I have always possessed the ability to wake myself at any given hour. I lay down that evening, expecting to be roused at midnight: and at midnight I roused myself, without giving any one the trouble to call me. I waked in the darkness, struck a match, and perceived the hands of my little clock stood at fifteen minutes past the hour.

‘Just like Tessie!’ I thought. ‘She thinks to cheat me into snoring till six o’clock in the morning. But I am one too many for her!’

I lit my candle, slipped on the shoes, which were the only articles of dress I had disencumbered myself of, and stole noiselessly across the corridor into the sisters’ room.

How quietly Ange must be sleeping! There was not a sound but her breathing to be heard. Surely she must be better! The room was wrapt in gloom; it was foolish of Tessie not to have procured a lamp. I threw the light of my taper across the bed. The first thing I perceived was the form of Tessie, seated on the ground, with her head against the counterpane, and fast asleep. The words of Scripture flashed across my mind, ‘Could ye not watch one hour?’ But I excused her.

‘Poor girl,’ I thought, ‘she is really weak! It is a physical impossibility for her to keep awake.’

The next moment I had thrown my light _upon_ the bed to see how Ange fared.

Merciful heavens! _Where was she?_ I rushed up to the couch and pulled down the clothes impetuously. It was empty—void!

I glanced round the room: it was in the same condition. _Ange was gone!_

‘Tessie, Tessie!’ I exclaimed loudly, as I shook that young lady into consciousness again. ‘Where is your sister? Where is Ange?’

She waked with a start of bewilderment, and became as horrified as myself.

‘But she was _here_—she was _here_!’ she kept on repeating. ‘I only went to sleep for a minute, indeed, Hilda! I left her sleeping safely here.’

‘I believe it; but while you slept she has escaped. We must search every corner of the house at once. Come with me! there is not a moment to lose!’

We rushed from room to room without success. Ange was apparently nowhere on the premises. I clasped my hands upon my forehead to try and decide what to do next. Escaped! and in the middle of the night! Where could she have gone to? Where could she _wish_ to go? I had it! Like an inspiration the answer came to me: ‘To the Hôtel d’Etoile!’

‘Tessie!’ I cried, ‘you must stay here, in case Ange returns. Go and wake Madame Marmoret to keep you company. And I will go and search for her in the town.’

‘_In the town!_ Oh, Hilda, how could she be in the town? It is impossible!’

‘Find her in the house then!’ I exclaimed, as I ran out of the front door, which was never fastened, night nor day, and flew down the steep stony street, in the direction of the Hôtel d’Etoile, as fast as my feet could carry me.

It was the principal hotel in the place, and boasted of a billiard-room, which was on the ground-floor and fronted the street. The young men in St. Pucelle made this billiard-room their nightly rendezvous: and it was here that Sophy Markham had averred that Charteris spent all his evenings.

Long before I reached it I could see the stream of light which its lamps threw across the road, and hear the sound of men’s voices, laughing and talking together, and the click of the billiard-balls cannoning each other on the table. I felt sure it was here that Ange’s delirious fancy would lead her, and I was right. As I arrived opposite the open window of the billiard-room, I caught sight of a dark figure half hidden in the shadow of the wall, and springing towards it, I clasped her in my arms—Ange, with only her black dress covering her nightgown, her bronze-coloured hair floating over her shoulders, and her poor naked feet upon the ground.

‘Ange! Ange! my darling!’ I exclaimed, as I folded her to my heart. ‘Come back! Come home with me! You will be so ill if you remain here!’

‘_Hush! Hark!_’ she said, with such wide-open, fixed and solemn eyes, and in such a tone of awe, that I felt constrained to obey her.

There were perhaps a dozen men or more, knocking the billiard-balls about and filling the atmosphere with smoke, but Cave Charteris’s voice was to be distinguished above them all.

‘Reckless old dog, that _Papa_ Lovett,’ I heard him say. ‘He’s a regular out-and-out swindler! I’ve lent him more cash myself since I’ve been here than his whole carcase would pay for, but I knew I should never see the colour of it again when I parted with it.’

‘Took the change out in other ways, I suppose, _mon cher_?’ suggested a foreigner. ‘The _bon papa_ has two pretty daughters, _n’est ce pas_? and it is said you have evinced a decided predilection for the little one.’

‘_Ah! fi donc_, monsieur!’ cried Charteris, jestingly; ‘don’t make profane remarks! I am a married man! and other men’s pretty daughters are of no further use to me.’

‘_Vraiment!_ I shouldn’t have thought it!’ rejoined the other, incredulously.

I had felt the slight form in my clasp shiver under these words, as if it had been struck, and I could bear it no longer.

‘Ange!’ I exclaimed vehemently, ‘you _must_ come home! this is no place for you! and you will catch your death of cold if you remain here any longer. I _insist_ upon your returning with me!’

But there was no answer to my appeal, only the form I held seemed to sink lower and lower, until I could support it no longer.

‘Ange! Ange!’ I went on in terror, ‘try and hold yourself up, or I must call for assistance. I cannot carry you. Oh, darling! make one effort and let me get you home!’

Still she sunk down—down—heavier each moment in my arms.

‘Mr. Charteris!’ I screamed in my alarm; ‘Mr. Charteris! Come here! Come at once—Ange is dying!’

There was a sudden commotion in the billiard-room as my voice reached its occupants—a few exclamations of surprise—a cessation of sound—and then Cave Charteris came flying through the open window to my aid.

‘Hold her up!’ I panted; ‘I have no strength left! She escaped from us in her delirium, and I must have her carried home at once.’

He seized the little figure from me and laid the head against his arm. The light from the billiard-room streamed over her pallid face: her violet eyes were closed and sunken: there was a grey shade about the mouth that was not to be mistaken.

‘Ange! Ange! speak to me!’ I cried, in my anguish and dismay.

‘Ange! _petite_ Ange! say you forgive me,’ chimed in the deeper tones of Cave Charteris’s voice.

At that sound she opened her eyes, very, very slowly, as if the action gave her pain, and fixed them upon his. I saw the words, ‘I _forgive_,’ tremble upon the quivering lips, which closed again and then fell open as her spirit passed away upon the wings of Night!

* * * * *

I feel that no description I can append to this simple recital can increase its pathos. Ange died—just as I have told you—and I never looked upon the face of Cave Charteris after that night. I never wish to look upon it. He ranks in my memory as one of the worst men I ever met.

Mr. Lovett arrived home on the next day, with the doctor in his train, when _petite_ Ange was lying stretched and still upon her bed, with her waxen hands filled with the autumn flowers the poor of St. Pucelle had placed in them. Her father’s grief was naturally very violent—such saintly mourners usually mourn noisily. Yet he had not considered his child’s illness of sufficient importance to oblige him to give up a dinner at Rille, which he had been pledged to attend on the previous day.

I almost wondered, as I watched him bury her in the little strip of ground appropriated to those of her faith, in the Abbé Morteville’s cemetery, that he did not fall headlong on the coffin and denounce himself as Ange’s murderer. But no such idea ever entered his venerable head. He lived for several years afterwards, to talk of virtue and practice vice, and when he died, his creditors howled like hungry wolves above his grave, and had to recoup themselves by abusing him for the rest of their lives. Some few got their money—those to whom I had promised it in the courtyard—but their demands were but as a drop in the ocean. Mr. Warrington’s advent in St. Pucelle was a terrible blow to Mr. Lovett, especially when his legal research on my behalf resulted in the discovery that a large portion of my little patrimony had been wasted or spent. But I would not let him prosecute my guardian, for Tessie’s sake. I felt that she had sorrows enough to bear, poor girl, without this open disgrace being added to them. By the time that Mr. Lovett died, my Armand’s term of probation in Algiers was ended, and he had got his own again, so I made Tessie come and live with us.

That was a happy period. It was so delightful to watch the roses return to her cheeks, and the roundness to her form, and to feel that the saddest part of her life was over, and she was free to choose her future destiny. But we did not keep her with us long. In Paris that was hardly to be expected! Every one prophesied she would marry a foreigner, yet she married——

Stay! Armand and I are going over next week to England, to spend a whole month in Norwood, with my dear old friend Mrs. Sandilands, to whom I am very anxious to introduce my husband and my son, Godefroi de Nesselrode—who is already seven years old.

And Charlie, dear old boy! is anticipating our arrival as if he were still my mother’s ‘blue-eyed baby’ of twenty-two, instead of a sober citizen of thirty, because he wants me, not to be introduced to, but to renew my acquaintance with, _his wife_—Mrs. Sandilands Number Two—my dear friend Tessie!

It all came about as naturally as possible, although it sounds so romantic, for Charlie came to stay with us in Paris, and popped the question to her there, without even asking my advice upon the subject, and took her home with him to be his mother’s eldest daughter!

* * * * *

So they all lived happy ever afterwards. Yes, that is true—strictly and literally true—because they were not such fools as to expect, or wish for, unalloyed happiness in this world of shadow. They had been hungry, and they were filled—they had been naked, and they were clothed—they had suffered, sometimes very acutely—and they were loved and looked after, and guarded by good and true men, and would have been ingrates as well as fools, not to recognise how much more fortunate they were than many of their fellows.

But there is one dark passage in Tessie’s life and mine which we shall never forget—the night that Ange’s spirit spread its wings and flew away from us. Sometimes I wonder, when Armand is more than usually tender to me, or little Godefroi more than usually good, if _she_ is hovering round us who are so happy, and rejoices because we rejoice. Or does she stand by Cave Charteris’s side, for the sake of the love she bore him, to urge him on to better thoughts and a higher career? Or is she wandering through the Elysian fields with the old father whom she believed in so faithfully, until his blazoned disgrace snapped her tender heartstrings!

Who can tell me? No parson, no priest, no book! Nothing but the great mystery that bore her from us—the solver of all our doubts, the cure for all our sorrows: Death!

Let us thank God that amidst the troubles He ordained for this earthly pilgrimage, He left us a sure and certain remedy that cannot fail to come to every one at last!

Ange and Tessie and I shall walk together once more, through flowery paths, more beautiful than those in St. Pucelle, and talk of everything that may have befallen us since we last parted! And my mother—my unforgotten, lamented mother, shall smile on us there, and bid us welcome. Reader! do you not believe it?

Then, I pity you! Farewell!

THE END.

BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD, SURREY.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

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