A son, we have said, had been born to them, and Lennard named the child Florian, after his mother (here again ignoring his own family), whom that event cost dear, for the sweet and loving Flora never recovered her health or strength--injured, no doubt, in India--but fell into a decline, and, two years after, passed away in the arms of Lennard and her old nurse, Madelon. Lonely, lonely indeed, did the former feel now, though an orphan nephew of Flora--the son of her only sister--came to reside with him--Shafto Gyle by name--one who will figure largely in our story. Would Lennard ever forget the day of her departure, when she sank under that wasting illness with which no doctor could grapple? Ever and always he could recall the sweet but pallid face, the white, wasted hands, the fever-lighted dark eyes, which seemed so unnaturally large when, after one harrowing night of pain and delirium, she became gentle and quiet, and lovingly told him to take a little rest--for old-looking he was; old, worn, and wasted far beyond his years--and he obeyed her, saying he would take a little turn in the garden among the roses--the roses her hands would tend no more--sick at heart with the closeness of the sick-chamber and all it suggested, and maddened by the loud ticking of the watchful doctor's repeater as it lay on a table littered with useless phials; and how, ere he had been ten minutes in the sunny morning air, amid the perfume of the roses, he was wildly summoned by Madelon Galbraith with white cheeks and affrighted eyes, back to the chamber of death it proved to be; for it was on the brow of Death he pressed his passionate kisses, and to ears that could hear no more he uttered his heartrending entreaties that she would not leave him, or would give him one farewell word; and ever after would the perfume of roses be associated in his mind with that morning--the most terrible one of his life! Beside Revelstoke Church--old, picturesque, and rendered comely by a wealth of luxuriant ivy that Time has wreathed around its hoary walls to flutter in the sea breeze--she was laid, and the heart of Lennard seemed to be buried with her. It is a lonely old building, spotted with lichens, worn by storms, and perched upon the verge of a low, rocky cliff, up which the salt spray comes at times to the burial-ground. It is near the end of Mothcombe Bay, where the shore makes a turn to the southward. Not a house is near it, the solitary hills and waves encompass it, and it is said that its smouldering tombstones would furnish ample matter for the 'meditations' of a Hervey. So there Flora was laid, and there Lennard was to be laid by her side when the time came. Her death hardened his heart more than ever against his own family, and he began almost to forget that he ever bore any other name than hers--his adopted one.