‘Father, the man whom Herbert would have you choose for me need be sought no further than this room. He is here. My heart beats to his heart; my face is pressed to his.’ My father came to us. He laid one hand on Herbert’s shoulder, and the other on my head; and thus he spoke: ‘A woman’s love that clings not to a man when calamity overtakes him is worthless. Freely do I bestow her upon you, Herbert, if it is her wish and your wish that you should be united.’ ‘My husband,’ I murmured, as I clung closer to him, and it was my only answer. Herbert tried to persuade me that it was to my happiness and my interest to abandon him; but he might as well have tried to convince the winds of heaven that they should not blow. Externally the Herbert as I had first known him had changed. His handsome face was handsome no longer, and his wondrous eyes were sightless for ever. But his heart was the same. What could change that--the bravest, truest, tenderest that ever beat in man’s breast? And so ere the next Christmas had dawned I was Herbert’s wife, and soon after that my father abandoned the accursed Grange to the gloom and the silence and the melancholy from which he had reclaimed it, and a little later it was burned to the ground. We never knew how the fire originated; but it was generally supposed that some of the superstitious people in the neighbourhood wilfully set it alight, under the impression that a place that was accursed by the spilling of human blood should no longer be allowed to encumber the earth. When I heard of its destruction I confess that I rejoiced, and I said to myself: ‘Never again will the White Raven bring calamity to a household as it has brought to ours.’ For five years I walked with my husband in his darkness, and let him see the world through my eyes. Two children blessed--literally blessed--our union, a girl and a boy. But my beloved husband never fully recovered from the shock of the awful accident on that dark and memorable Christmas Day; and, though he uttered no moan, his blindness preyed upon his mind, and a short, brief illness took him from me. For long years the grass has waved over his grave. Other men have praised my face and sought my hand; but to all I have turned a deaf ear, for my love was buried in Herbert’s grave. But in my son the father lives again, and when I gaze upon his handsome face and splendid figure, I feel that God is very good, and that He chastens us to make us more perfect in His sight. VIII WITH FIRE AND DEATH A STORY OF A GREAT DEED. What though the field be lost? All is not lost; th’ unconquerable will, And study of revenge, immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield.