Three days later the mortal body of John Cleve, of Wolfscliff, was borne to the family burial ground on the plateau on one of the hills that looked up to the sky. It was followed by a great concourse of people, consisting of kindred, friends, servants and neighbors from far and near. The services were concluded there, with these few words of such divine love and truth that I quote them here for the comfort they may give to all sorrowing souls who grieve because they think, and think wrongly, that they have laid their loved ones in the grave. The minister said: “‘And now, having performed the last service of love to our dear brother by laying his body in the earth from which it came, we leave it there, as he has left it, to follow him by faith to his eternal home.’” Will my readers note the use of the pronouns there? There is deep meaning in that. After the obsequies, life went on very calmly at Wolfscliff. Stuart and Palma wrote every week to their friends in England, and quite as often got letters from them. Again Ran and Judy urged Stuart and Palma to come and visit them, as there was nothing now to keep the latter at Wolfscliff. They wrote that they had given up their plan of leaving Haymore Hall to study in London. That the attractions of the country and the home were so great that they could not tear themselves away from it. That they had formed attachments not only to the place, but to the people. That they should remain there, and that the Rev. James Campbell had undertaken to direct their studies, and they expected to derive quite as much—if not more—benefit from his instructions as they could from professional teachers. The correspondence resulted in a promise from the Stuarts to run over to England after the wheat harvest should be gathered. It was while Stuart was thinking of setting a certain day for their embarkation and purchasing their tickets that a strange visitor arrived at Wolfscliff. It was a glorious day in the latter part of June. Stuart was afield, looking after the wheat. Palma was seated on the front piazza, with her babies placed face to face in their cradle on her right hand, and her workbasket, overflowing with work, on her left. She was singing to herself in a low key when she heard the sound of wheels on the gravel walk. Looking up, she saw the hack from the Wolfshead tavern, at Wolfswalk, approaching. It drew up before the porch. The coachman got off his box and went to the carriage door and opened it. A gentleman got out—a tall, thin man of about forty years of age, with dark, reddish-brown hair and beard. Palma laid aside her work and stood up to receive the visitor. He came up the steps of the piazza, stopped, raised his hat, and as he looked at the childlike young matron before him, said with some hesitation: “Mrs.—Stuart? Have I the honor of speaking to Mrs. Stuart?” “That is my name, sir,” replied Palma politely.