That night, standing on the turret, Martha looks out upon the lands of Allenders--the lands which her own labour has cleared of every overpowering burden, and which the same vigorous and unwearied faculties shall clear yet of every encumbrance, if it please God. The moonlight glimmers over the slumbering village of Maidlin--over the pretty houses of poor Harry’s impatient fancy, where Harry’s labourers now dwell peacefully, and know that their improved condition was the will and purpose of the kindly-remembered dead. And the little spire of Maidlin Church shoots up into the sky, guarding the rest of him, whose memory no man dares malign--whose name has come to honour and sweet fame, since it shone upon that tablet in the wall--and not one wish or passing project of whose mind, which ever gained expression in words, remains without fulfilment, or without endeavour and settled purpose to fulfil. And Martha’s thoughts turn back--back to her own ambitious youth and its bitter disappointment--back to the beautiful dawn of Harry’s life--to its blight, and to its end. And this grand resurrection of her buried hopes brings tears to Martha’s eyes, and humility to her full and swelling heart. God, whose good pleasure it once was to put the bar of utter powerlessness upon her ambition, has at last given her to look upon the work of her hands--God, who did not hear, according to her dimmed apprehension, those terrible prayers for Harry which once wrung her very heart, gave her to see him pass away with peace and hope at the end, and has permitted her--her, so greedy of good fame and honour--to clear and redress his sullied name. And now has been bestowed on Martha this child--this child, before whom lies a gentle glory, sweet to win--a gracious, womanly, beautiful triumph, almost worthy of an angel--and the angels know the dumb, unspeakable humility of thanksgiving which swells in Martha’s heart.