A profound stillness supervened. Sidonie, with tearful eyes, gazed at Catherine. Bruno was deeply affected as he saw the once beautiful woman torn with grief and remorse. In gasps she told them of the horrible night she had passed; of the bloody fingers that seemed always to clasp her cheek; of the ghastly discovery at early dawn. All this she told them without trying to palliate her part in it. Her suffering was pitiful. “God knows how penitent I am, and to him alone can I turn in my anguish and wickedness. Every moment those bloody fingers seem burning into my flesh. That is my just punishment. It will follow me wherever I go. I cannot escape. The blood of my innocent husband will be forever on my head. My hands will wear the crimson stain so long as I live. My cheek will always bear the marks of bloody fingers. My poor Savin’s legacy to me is a legacy of blood!” She paused in a paroxysm of passion. “And now, Bruno, you understand why I bid you to marry our little Sidonie. She will make you happy. She is worthy of your love.--And when you are his wife, little one, remember and profit by my experience. When I am gone----” “Oh, do not speak in that way!” protested Sidonie. “Child, I am going away from here--far away from the frightful spot of my crime. I love my husband--too late, yes; but his memory shall be sacred to me even unto death. And now, before I go, let me feel that you two will be happy. You, my child, will be a true wife to him; but if you are ever inclined to test his love and jealousy, think of me, and be warned in time.” “Fear not. Coquetry is not to my taste,” said the little cripple, sadly. Bruno took her hand, and a smile of perfect love illumined her face. Together they went away. * * * * * The following morning, upon going to the corner of the wood, two peasants found the Barrau cottage deserted. Under cover of the night, Catherine, true to her word, had silently stolen away. No traces of her were ever found, and to this day the people of St. Benoit speak in mysterious tones of her disappearance, and with an air of superstitious gravity tell the story of the gamekeeper’s murder. At twenty-three a broken heart may heal, and one day in the springtime a pleasant little wedding _fête_ was given in honor of Sidonie and her devoted Bruno. Jeannille Marselon was present, and, though she did not speak, for once her face brightened with interest while she watched the lovelight shining in Bruno’s eyes as he bent down to kiss the upturned face, and to stroke the golden tresses of his fair young bride. THE END. TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: 1. Original spellings have been standardised only when a dominant version was found. 2. Misspellings of words that occur only once have been corrected. 3. Enclosed italic font in _underscores_.