owledge.

"But supposing he asks?" said I.

"Say any soothing thing your ready wit may suggest, my dear young lady.
But the truth, in his present condition, would be a fatal shock."

It haunted me. "Supposing he asks." And late in the evening he did ask!
I was alone with him, and he called me.

"Marguerite, dear child, thou wilt tell me the truth. Why does my wife,
my Victoire, thy grandmother, not come to me?"

Pondering what lie I could tell him, and how, an irresistible impulse
seized me. I bent over him and said:

"Dear sir, the King has summoned the Duchess."

Does the mind regain power as the body fails? My great-grandfather
turned his head, and, as his blue eyes met mine, I could not persuade
myself that he was deceived.

"The will of his Majesty be done," he said faintly but firmly.

The next few moments seemed like years. Had I done wrong? Had it done
him harm? Above all, what did he mean? Were his words part of one last
graceful dream of the dynasty of the white lilies, or was his loyal
submission made now to a Majesty not of France, not even of this world?
It was an intense relief to me when he spoke again.

"Marguerite!"

I knelt by the bedside, and he laid his hand upon my head. An exquisite
smile shone on his face.

"Good child; pauvre petite! His Majesty will call me also, before long.
Is it not so? And then thou shalt rest."

His fine face clouded again with a wandering, troubled look, and his
fingers fumbled the bed-clothes. I saw that he had lost his crucifix in
moving his hand to my head. I gave it him, and he clasped his hands over
it once more, and carrying it to his lips with a smile, closed his eyes
like some good child going to sleep.

And Thou, O King of kings, didst summon him, as the dark faded into
dawn!

CHAPTER XXIX.

HOME AGAIN--HOME NEWS--THE VERY END.

Now it is past it seems like a dream, my life at The Vine, with its sad
end, if indeed that can be justly called a sad end which took away
together, and with little pain, those dear souls whose married life had
not known the parting of a day, and who in death were not (even by a
day) divided.

And so I went back to the moors. I was weak and ill when I started, but
every breath of air on my northward journey seemed to bring me strength.

There are no events in that porter's life, I am convinced. He looked
just the same, and took me and my boxes quite coolly, though I felt
inclined to shake hands with him in