And that ended the life of Jessy Page: and, in one sense, its episode of mystery. Nothing more was ever heard or known of where she had been or what she had done. Years have gone by since then; and William Page is lying beside her. Miss Page and Charley live on at the Copse Farm; Susan became Mrs. John Drench ages ago. Her husband, a man of substance now, was driving her into Alcester last Tuesday (market-day) in his four-wheeled chaise, two buxom daughters in the back seat. I nodded to them from Mr. Brandon's window. The mystery of Jessy Page (as we grew to call it) remained a mystery. It remains one to this day. What the secret was--if there was a secret--why she went in the way she did, and came back in what looked like shame and fear and trembling, a dying girl--has not been solved. It never will be in this world. Some old women put it all down to her having changed her religion and been afraid to tell: while Miss Abigail and Miss Susan have never got rid of a vague doubt, touching Marcus Allen. But it may be only their fancy; they admit that, and say to one another when talking of it privately, that it is not right to judge a man without cause. He keeps a carriage-and-pair now; and gives dinners, and has handsome daughters growing up; and is altogether quite up to the present style of expensive life in London. And I never go into church on a Christmas morning--whether it may be decorated in our simple country fashion, or in accordance with your new "artistic" achievements--but I think of Jessy Page. Of her sweet face, her simplicity, and her want of guile: and of the poor wreck that came back, broken-hearted, to die. CRABB RAVINE. I. "Yes! Halloa! What is it?" To be wakened up short by a knocking, or some other noise, in the night, is enough to make you start up in bed, and stare round in confusion. The room was dark, barring the light that always glimmers in at the window on a summer's night, and I listened and waited for more. Nothing came: it was all as silent as the grave. We were staying at Crabb Cot. I had gone to bed at half-past nine, dead tired after a day's fishing. The Squire and Tod were away: Mrs. Todhetley went over to the Coneys' after tea, and did not seem in a hurry to come back. They fried one of the fish I had caught for my supper; and after that, there being no one to speak to, I went to bed. It was a knocking that had wakened me out of my sleep: I was sure of that. And it sounded exactly as though it were at the window--which was very improbable. Calling out again to know who was there, and what was wanted--though not very loudly, for the children slept within earshot--and getting no answer, I lay down again, and was all but asleep when the noise came a second time.