token for him on the stone in the well when I went away from Ashcroft. I will put my journal there. He will see the box and remember it. He will learn that I have gone, and will know that I love, but that I leave and renounce him." * * * * * The remaining pages of the book were blank. Elizabeth Purcill's journal was ended. Bradford was busy with conjectures. Why had not Thornton found and kept the journal intended for him? Had it fallen at once to the bottom of the well, and lain there for years, while he waited in vain for her coming or her token? Her departure had not brought Eleanor Purcill and Thornton Lee together; for his aunt still remained unwedded, and he came every Sunday to the village church, with a sweet matronly-faced woman on his arm, and two children by his side. Bradford thrust the journal into his pocket, took up his fishing-rod and basket, and sauntered towards the village. He thought he remembered the name of Elizabeth Purcill on a head-stone in the church-yard. He opened the little wicket and went in. The setting sun threw the long shadows of the head-stones across the thick, rank grass. The sounds of the village children at play on the green came to his ear softened and mellowed by the distance. He turned towards the spot where, year after year, the Purcills had been gathered,--those who had died in their beds in their native town, and those who had perished in far-off climes, and whose bones had been brought to moulder by the old church-wall. He found the stone, and, bending down, read, "Elizabeth Purcill, died Oct. 5th, 18--, aged 19." Bradford opened the journal and looked at the last date. She had died, then, the day after the journal was ended. But how, and where? He sat down on the flat stone which covered his grandfather, and turned over the pages again, as if they could tell him more than he already knew. So absorbed was he, that he did not see a woman who a few minutes afterwards knelt down before the same stone, and with a sickle began to cut away the weeds and grass. Bradford looked up at last, and, as the woman raised her head for an instant, saw that it was Mrs. Bickford. He approached her and called her by name. She gave a little start, as she heard his voice. "Why, Master Bradford, who would have thought of seeing you here at this time?" Bradford smiled. "Whose grave is this that you are taking such pains to clear?" She pointed to the name with her sickle. "Yes, I know all that that can tell me. But who was Elizabeth Purcill?--what relation was she to me?--and how came she to die so young, and to be buried here?" "Why do you think I should know?" she replied. "People often die young; and no matter where the Purcills die, they all wish to come here at last;--that one died in Cuba,--that in France,--that in Greece,--and that at sea." And she turned her hand towards them, as she spoke.