ame back
to the Tilford Manor-house and spent their happy, healthy age amid those
heather downs where Nigel had passed his first lusty youth, ere ever he
turned his face to the wars. Thither also came Aylward when he had left
the "Pied Merlin" where for many a year he sold ale to the men of the
forest.

But the years pass; the old wheel turns and ever the thread runs out.
The wise and the good, the noble and the brave, they come from the
darkness, and into the darkness they go, whence, whither and why, who
may say? Here is the slope of Hindhead. The fern still glows russet
in November, the heather still burns red in July; but where now is the
Manor of Cosford? Where is the old house of Tilford? Where, but for a
few scattered gray stones, is the mighty pile of Waverley? And yet
even gnawing Time has not eaten all things away. Walk with me toward
Guildford, reader, upon the busy highway. Here, where the high green
mound rises before us, mark yonder roofless shrine which still stands
foursquare to the winds. It is St. Catharine's, where Nigel and Mary
plighted their faith. Below lies the winding river, and over yonder you
still see the dark Chantry woods which mount up to the bare summit,
on which, roofed and whole, stands that Chapel of the Martyr where the
comrades beat off the archers of the crooked Lord of Shalford. Down
yonder on the flanks of the long chalk hills one traces the road by
which they made their journey to the wars. And now turn hither to the
north, down this sunken winding path! It is all unchanged since Nigel's
day. Here is the Church of Compton. Pass under the aged and crumbling
arch. Before the steps of that ancient altar, unrecorded and unbrassed,
lies the dust of Nigel and of Mary. Near them is that of Maude their
daughter, and of Alleyne Edricson, whose spouse she was; their children
and children's children are lying by their side. Here too, near the
old yew in the churchyard, is the little mound which marks where Samkin
Aylward went back to that good soil from which he sprang.

So lie the dead leaves; but they and such as they nourish forever that
great old trunk of England, which still sheds forth another crop and
another, each as strong and as fair as the last. The body may lie in
moldering chancel, or in crumbling vault, but the rumor of noble lives,
the record of valor and truth, can never die, but lives on in the
soul of the people. Our own work lies ready to our hands; and yet our
strength