And thus the last link was broken which bound Edgar to his old life. The moment when his sister and his successor clasped hands was the conclusion, as it were, of his career. Had Clare clung to him, and sought to detain him, he might have held on somehow, sadly and reluctantly, by some shadow of the former existence, trying to do impossibilities, and to reconcile the adverse elements. Her sudden decision was a cruel blow to him: it was his final extinction as Edgar Arden; but at the same time, no doubt, it was a relief. It settled her in the position which in all the world was the one most suitable for her, which she herself preferred; and at once and for ever it severed the bond which was now no better than a fictitious and sentimental tie. It was best so, he said to himself, even when he felt it most sorely. They could not have continued together: they were no longer brother and sister. It was best for both that the severance should be complete. And thus it was that Edgar Arden’s life came to an end. Had he died it could not have finished more completely. His life, his career, his very name were gone. He existed still, and might for aught he knew continue to exist for many years, and even make for himself another history, new hopes, new loves, a renewed career. But here the man who has been the hero of this story, the only Edgar known to his friends and to himself--concluded. The change was like Death--a change of condition, place, being, everything that makes a man. And here the story of Squire Arden must perforce come to an end. CHAPTER XXIX. POSTSCRIPT. Time flies in the midst of great events; and yet it is long to look back upon, doubling and redoubling the moments which have been great with feeling--filling the spectator with wonder that in so short a time a human creature could live so long or undergo so much. But after a great crisis of life, time becomes blank, the days are endless as they pass, and count for nothing when they have gone. Flatly they fall upon the memory that keeps no record of them--so much blank routine, so many months; in ordinary parlance, the fallow season, in which brain and heart have to recover, as the earth has, under her veil of rain and snow--chill days and weeks without a record; or bright days and weeks which are almost as blank--for even happiness keeps no daybook--until the time of exhaustion is over, and life moves again, most often under the touch of pain.