dale has passed and
swept away. But it has left deep trace of its passage.

The restless head, the busy hand, the scheming brain of Rupert Landale
lie now mouldering under the sod of the little churchyard where first
they started the mischief that was to have such far reaching effects.
Low, too, lies the proud head of the mistress of Pulwick, so stricken,
indeed, so fever-tortured, that those who love her best scarce dare
hope more for her than rest at last under the same earth that presses
thus lightly above her enemy's eternal sleep.

There is a great stillness in the house. People go to and fro with
muffled steps, the master with bent white head; Miss O'Donoghue,
indefatigable sick nurse; Madeleine, who may not venture as far as the
threshold of her sister's room, and awaits in prayer and tears the
hour of that final bereavement which will free her to take wing
towards the cloister for which her soul longs; Sophia, crushed finally
by the sorrows she has played at all her days. Seemingly there is
peace once more upon them all, but it is the peace of exhaustion
rather than that of repose. And yet--could they but know it, as the
sands run down in the hour-glass of time there are golden grains
gathering still to drop into the lives of each.

But meanwhile none may read the future, and Molly fights for her life
in the darkened room, the gloom of which, to the souls of the dwellers
at Pulwick, seems to spread even to the sunny skies without.

* * * * *

When Lady Landale was brought back to her home from Lancaster, it was
held by every one who saw her that Death had laid his cold finger on
her forehead, and that her surrender to his call could only be a
matter of hours.

The physician in attendance could point out no reasonable ground for
hope. Such a case had never come within his experience or knowledge,
and he was with difficulty induced to believe that it was not the
result of actual violence.

"In every particular," said he, "the patient's symptoms are those of
coma resulting from prolonged strangulation or asphyxia. These
spectacles are very dangerous to highly sensitive organisations. Lady
Landale no doubt felt for the miserable wretch in the benevolence of
her heart. Imagination aiding her, she realised suddenly the horror of
his death throes, and this vivid realisation was followed by the
actual simulacrum of the torture. We have seen hysterical subjects
simulate in the same