“You must open it, John. Penelope bid me tell you to open the back and read what your father wrote there so many years agone.” Mutely he obeyed, and, inscribed in small, clear characters, saw this: Beloved, though death must needs come to us soon or late, yet do I know we can never die since Love is immortal. So by thy love shall I live on beyond death with thee for ever. Thy John Dering. For a while he sat staring at this message from the “living” dead; at last, and suddenly, he turned and looked at her. “John,” she whispered, “take me, beloved, and so let us make each other immortal.” Then Sir John reached out his arms and, drawing her to him, gazed deep into her eyes. “Herminia,” said he, “O Rose o’ love ... my Rose in very truth, at last!” “For thy wearing, John,” she sighed, “or needs must I fade soon and wither utterly away.” CHAPTER XLVIII WHICH IS, HAPPILY, THE LAST Old Mr. Dumbrell, perched in George Potter’s cart behind the likely horse, blinked at the setting sun and shook his head; quoth he: “The longer oi live, Jarge, the more sartin-sure be oi that there be no sich thing as gratitood nowheres, no!” “What be troublin’ of ’ee now, Gaffer?” “Thinkin’ o’ Sir John Dering, oi be. Oh, ’e’s mebbe this an’ that an’ t’other, but oi calls ’im naun but a ongrateful young barrynet!” “Lord, old ’un,” remonstrated Mr. Potter, “ain’t ’e given ye your cottage, rent free?” “Wot o’ that?” snarled the Aged Soul. “Ain’t ’e got ’unnerds an’ thousands o’ cottages? Wot’s a cottage?” “Well, but ain’t ’e likewise give ye that little medder be’ind your cottage?” “Oi never said ’e ’adn’t, did oi?” “Aye, but ain’t ’e give ye a cow along o’ the medder an’ a couple o’ fat ’ogs?” “Wot of ’em?” screeched the Aged One indignantly. “Oi bean’t complainin’ o’ they, be oi? No, my trouble be ’im a-goin’ away an’ never s’ much as a word to oi ... an’ me sech a very old, aged Soul as can’t live much longer, an’ ’im a-leavin’ pore old oi wi’ never no good-bye ... an’ never sendin’ me that theer arm-cheer as ’e promised faithful!” “Arm-cheer?” repeated Mr. Potter inquiringly. “Ah! ’Osea,’ says ’e, aye, an’ called me ’is friend, ’e did, ’Osea,’ says ’e, ‘you shall set in comfort arl your days,’ ’e sez—them were ’is very words! An’ I’ve been ’opin’ an’ a-waitin’ an’ expectin’ that theer cheer ever since.... An’ look wot I done for ’e!” “Wot?” demanded Mr. Potter.