ing her, my own sorrows were
assuaged; my sincerity won her entire conviction.

She turned to me. The hard, inflexible, persecuting woman, turned with a
mild expression of face, and said, "If our beloved angel sees us now, it
will delight her to find that I do you even tardy justice. You were worthy
of her; and from my heart I am glad that you won her away from me. Pardon,
my son, the many wrongs I have done you; forget my bitter words and unkind
treatment--take me, and govern me as you will."

I seized this docile moment to propose our departure from the church.
"First," she said, "let us replace the pavement above the vault."

We drew near to it; "Shall we look on her again?" I asked.

"I cannot," she replied, "and, I pray you, neither do you. We need not
torture ourselves by gazing on the soulless body, while her living spirit
is buried quick in our hearts, and her surpassing loveliness is so deeply
carved there, that sleeping or waking she must ever be present to us."

For a few moments, we bent in solemn silence over the open vault. I
consecrated my future life, to the embalming of her dear memory; I vowed to
serve her brother and her child till death. The convulsive sob of my
companion made me break off my internal orisons. I next dragged the stones
over the entrance of the tomb, and closed the gulph that contained the life
of my life. Then, supporting my decrepid fellow-mourner, we slowly left the
chapel. I felt, as I stepped into the open air, as if I had quitted an
happy nest of repose, for a dreary wilderness, a tortuous path, a bitter,
joyless, hopeless pilgrimage.

CHAPTER IV.

OUR escort had been directed to prepare our abode for the night at the inn,
opposite the ascent to the Castle. We could not again visit the halls and
familiar chambers of our home, on a mere visit. We had already left for
ever the glades of Windsor, and all of coppice, flowery hedgerow, and
murmuring stream, which gave shape and intensity to the love of our
country, and the almost superstitious attachment with which we regarded
native England. It had been our intention to have called at Lucy's dwelling
in Datchet, and to have re-assured her with promises of aid and protection
before we repaired to our quarters for the night. Now, as the Countess of
Windsor and I turned down the steep hill that led from the Castle, we saw
the children, who had just stopped in their caravan, at the inn-door. They
had passed through Datchet