On the 7th of June 1727, George Louis landed from England on the Dutch shores. He was travelling onwards towards Osnabrück, when, on the night of the 11th, an unknown hand threw a letter into his carriage. The King, who was alone, opened it in the expectation of seeing a petition. There were only a few lines in the letter, but they came from the dead, and were written as with fire. What met his eyes was a summons from Sophia Dorothea of Zelle, written on her death-bed in the preceding November at Ahlden, calling on him in God's name to meet her before His tribunal within a year and a day. The King was intensely superstitious. What more happened in that carriage where he sat solitary, holding in his hand the open letter from his dead wife, none ever knew: but when the carriage stopped at the gates of the Palace of Osnabrück, George Louis was dead. There were no mourners. Least of all could England mourn for the man who had so bitterly disgraced her, and had made her feel ashamed of her choice before all the world. On the contrary, there were bonfires and bell-ringings and universal rejoicings for the accession of George Augustus, whom England welcomed with hope in her heart that he would restore the honor which his father had laid in the dust. A vain hope, and a groundless joy. It is on that summer day, the 11th of June 1727, that I take leave of the Passmores. A quiet family party--Lucy growing into another and a livelier Celia; Charley toning down into a second Harry; Isabella, when she condescends to shine upon Ashcliffe in her glories of carriage and Nero, being the only discordant element. She and John Rowe get on very well, by reason of the lady being mistress, and John her obedient servant. Squire and Madam Passmore have grown more white and infirm; and on one quiet summer night in the preceding year, without sound or forewarning, the angels of God came down from heaven to bear Cicely Aggett home to the Father's house. But Patient lives on, for her work is not yet over.