“An thou wouldst speak to the Mistress Alice or Ellen,--the name escapeth me,--I would give thee much thanks. “ELIZABETH PARRY.” [17] Named. “But I never gave her any shoes or belt,” said Aline. “Poor little Joan, her mind must have failed her at the last, or Mistress Parry must have been as much in error as she was about my name. She was a dear child,” she continued, “and it is bitter dole[18] to me. I have burned a few candles for her soul, but I have not much means.” [18] Grief. “Trouble not thy gentle heart,” said the old priest, “I will myself say mass for the child, and no one shall be at any charge. God keep thee, Aline, as he may.” When she reached the Hall she went to Ian and Audry and told them what she had learned, and they were much disquieted at the evil speaking of old Moll; but there was nothing that they might do and they could only hope against hope. Ever since hearing the letter that Father Laurence had read, the sad figure of little Joan had floated before Aline’s eyes, and that night she went to the library and opened the ambry and took out the little packet and gazed at the pathetic contents. “I wonder whether I shall ever be able to find the boy, Wilfred Johnstone,” she said. “But I expect he will have forgotten already, boys never remember long,” and then she recalled a remark of her father’s,--“A boy remembers longer and is more constant than a girl, unless he has won her; but after she is won she is the more faithful.” “I should like to know if that be true,” she thought. At length the evening came when Ian had to start. It was a fine bright night as the three made their way down the secret passage for the last time. “How strange it has all been,” said Aline, “since we first discovered the secret room and this passage. What a different thing life means to me from what it did then!” She was leading the way carrying the wallet containing the food, while Audry carried a staff and a big heavy cloak. “It has been a wonderful time for me,” said Ian, “and I can never realise to the full the marvellousness of my escape or your great kindness to me. I feel that God must have arranged it all, just because it is so strange. I seem to have every little incident written in undying characters in my mind, and I could recall almost every word of your conversations with me. Even if we never meet again, you will live with me always.” “Oh, but you will come back and we shall meet again,” Audry interrupted, “you must not talk like that.” “I hope that I shall,” he said, but the tone of his voice was so sad that no one spoke again till they came to the cave-room.