now, "tell him that I blessed her and told her yes."

Dorothy bent down thoroughly heartbroken, and kissed the marble-like
forehead, dropping as she did a shower of tears upon his face.

"What is that, the holy water?" he asked, placing his finger upon one
of the drops.

"I could not help it, father," she sobbed aloud, "indeed I could not.
They are tears, but I will wipe them off."

"God bless thee, Doll, thou hast a tender heart. Nay, nay, leave them
on I beseech thee, they shall be thy last gift to the old man; I will
take them with me into my grave."

He paused, but Dorothy could not speak. She covered her face with her
hands and wept on.

"May the Blessed Virgin ever be your friend," he continued, resting
his hand upon her head, "and may the saints protect thee. I have
naught to give thee, Doll, but thou shalt have my blessing. God bless
thee, Doll, God bless thee and thy lover," and he sank back upon the
bed completely exhausted.

They sat motionless by his side for some minutes, only Dorothy's sobs
and the sick man's broken sighs breaking upon the silence, until at
last Manners advanced, and taking the hand of his betrothed, led her
unresistingly out into the garden.

Nicholas sat, after their departure, until well into the night,
watching by the bedside, before Father Philip opened his eyes again.
Many inquirers had visited the room, but they had departed again, and,
though they knew it not, they had looked for the last time upon the
familiar form of the confessor, ere he breathed his last.

As the morrow dawned the old man passed away, happy, inasmuch as
Nicholas had afforded him the last rites of his religion. As the
twilight descended the chapel bell rung out upon the stillness of the
eventide. It was the Sabbath, but amid the sorrow and the gloom which
reigned around, this fact had been well-nigh forgotten.

The summer breeze carried the sound a long way along the dale. It
had not been heard since the day of Father Philip's accident, and its
sound had been sorely missed.

But now it was no longer the herald of peace, nor the token of joy,
for the villagers knew full well that it was tolling the knell of
the departed priest, and their hearts were heavy with sorrow for the
friend they knew had just passed away.

The chapel was open. It was free for the once to as many as could
enter, and there were few around who did not wish to show respect to
the man who had surely, in one way or another, pro