The remains of my dear mother lie in the vaults of her own people, and there the sad and loving heart of Louise St. Amande knows at least the peace that was never accorded it in this world. Poor mother! Poor stricken wife, how sad was your existence! The love you gave your husband was doomed to slight and contumely; the love you gave your child could never induce Fate to let that child stay long by your side. And often as I meditate on her and on her strange life and ending, I see her again as I saw her on that last day; I hear her last whisper, "Thrust a sword through a man's body, Gerald." As I do so I recognise fully that she had never forgotten the words we spoke together in her lodgings in Denzil Street until the time came for them to bring forth their fruits. Of the others who have figured in this narrative let me now speak briefly. Oliver Quin, finding his occupation gone at my mother's death--whom during her life he would never quit, being always a most faithful and devoted servitor and friend---re-took up his old business, and is now a thriving dealer of beasts and black cattle on Tower Hill. Also has he been chosen as warden of the district in which he dwells--which is close by where my kidnapping took place so long ago--and he is a sidesman of his church, so that he is both prosperous, respectable, and respected. When I am in England, which is mostly once in every two or three years, we never fail to meet, he coming to pass an evening or so with me in the great house in the Fields, or I going to him in the City. And then, over a bottle of sound wine if it be summer, or a sneaker of punch if winter, we talk over our early adventures in Dublin and how we outwitted my uncle, and I retail again and again to him the sequel to those adventures in Virginia. Our wives know one another, too, for Quin hath married the daughter of a poor clergyman in the Minories, she having been a maid-servant in service of a rich cattle-dealer whom he knew; and they admire one another's babes and talk much mother's prattle together. Kinchella likewise prospers in America, and doth well. He, too, has a thriving family and is happy. Mary, for so I now permit myself to call her, is my wife's greatest friend as ever, as their sons are my sons' greatest friends when all are at home. Kinchella's eldest is at Harvard; his youngest is at Trinity College, Dublin; and both are intended for the ministry. If they follow in their father's footsteps then must they be an ornament to that sacred calling, and go far towards reforming that which still needs much reformation in our colonies--the private lives of our divines.