Bridget and I slept in the same house that night. We could not be persuaded to leave it, and there, in Miss Nancy's dear, familiar room, we held, as usual, family devotion. I almost fancied that she stood in the midst, and was gazing well-pleased upon us. That night I slept profoundly. My rest had been broken a great deal, and now the knowledge that duty did not keep me awake, enabled me to sleep well. On the next day Mr. Worth arrived, and was much distressed to find that he was too late to see his aunt alive. Though he looked older and more serious than when I last saw him, I readily recognized the same noble expression of face. He received me very kindly, and thanked Biddy and me for our attentions to his beloved aunt. He showed us a letter she had written, in which she spoke of us in the kindest manner, and recommended us to his care. "Neither of you shall ever lack for friendship whilst I live," he said, as he warmly shook us by the hands. He told me that he had ever retained a vivid recollection of my sad face; and inquired about "young Master." When I told him that he was dead, and gave an account of his life and sufferings, Mr. Worth remarked-- "Ah, yes, he was one of heaven's angels, lent us only for a short season." I accompanied him to his aunt's grave. * * * * * * Upon the reading of the will, it was discovered that Miss Nancy had liberated me, and left me, as a legacy, four thousand dollars, with the request that I would live somewhere in the North. To Biddy she had left a bequest of three thousand dollars; the remainder of her fortune, after making a donation to her brother, was left to her nephew, Robert Worth. The will was instantly carried into effect; as it met with no opposition, and she owed no debts, matters were arranged satisfactorily; and we prepared for departure. Louise had made all her arrangements to go with us. I was now a free woman, in the possession of a comparative fortune; yet I was not happy. Alas! I had out-lived all for which money and freedom were valuable, and I cared not how the remainder of my days were spent. Why cannot the means of happiness come to us when we have the capacity for enjoyment? On the evening before our departure, I called Louise to me and asked, "Where is Henry's grave?" It was the first time since that fatal day that I had mentioned his name to her. "He is buried far away, in a plain, unmarked grave; but, even if it were near, you should not go," she replied. "Tell me, who found him, after--after--after _the murder_?" "Mr. Graham and Atkins went in search of him, and I followed them; though he had told me what he was going to do, Ann, I could not oppose or even dissuade him." I wept freely; and, as is always the case, was relieved by it. "I am glad to see that you can weep. It will do you good," said Louise. CHAPTER XLII CONCLUSION. But little more remains to be told of my history.