"And so it is over at last," she murmured, more to herself than to me. "Very nearly over. The distress and the doubt, the terror and the pain. _I_ brought it all on; you know that, Johnny Ludlow. I feel sure now that she has pardoned me. I humbly hope that God has." She caught up her breath with a long-drawn sigh. "And you will give my dear love to all the old friends in England, Johnny, beginning with Mr. Featherston; he has been very kind to me; you will see them again, but I shall not. Not in this life. But we shall be together in the Life which has no ending." * * * * * At twelve o'clock that night Nancy Fennel died. At least, it was as near twelve as could be told. Just after that hour Flore went into the room, preparatory to sitting up with her, and found her dead--just expired, apparently--with a sweet smile on her face, and one hand stretched out as if in greeting. Perhaps Lavinia had come to greet her. We followed her to the grave on Saturday. Captain Fennel walked next the coffin--and I wondered how he liked it. I was close behind him with Monsieur Carimon. Charley Palliser came next with little Monsieur le Docteur Dupuis and Monsieur Gustave Sauvage. And we left Nancy in the cemetery, side by side with her sister. Captain Edwin Fennel disappeared. On the Sunday, when we English were looking for him in church, he did not come--his grief not allowing him, said some of the ladies. But an English clerk in the broker's office, hearing this, told another tale. Fennel had gone off by the boat which left the port for London the previous night at midnight. And he did not come back again. He had left sundry debts behind him, including that owing to Madame Veuve Sauvage. Monsieur Carimon, later, undertook the payment of these at the request of Colonel Selby. It was understood that Captain Edwin Fennel had emigrated to South America. If he had any conscience at all, it was to be hoped he carried it with him. He did not carry the money. The poor little income which he had schemed for, and perhaps worse, went back to the Selbys. And that is the story. It is a curious history, and painful in more ways than one. But I repeat that it is true. WATCHING ON ST. MARK'S EVE. Easter-Day that year was nearly as late as it could be--the twenty-third of April. That brought St. Mark's Day (the twenty-fifth) on the Tuesday; and Easter Monday was St. Mark's Eve. There is a superstitious belief in our county, and in some others--more thought of in our old grannies' days than in these--that if you go to the churchyard on St. Mark's Eve and watch the gate, the shadows, or phantoms, of those fated to die that year, and destined there to be buried, will be seen to enter it.