In a few weeks, Raoul Dauvray and his bride leave for San Francisco. Fittingly they choose France for their home. In San Francisco, Joseph Woods leads the young bride through the silent halls of the old house on the hill. The Missourian gravely bids the young wife remember that it was here her feet wandered over the now neglected paths. Joseph Woods convoys the departing voyagers to the border of the State. The ample fortune secured to them, will engage his occasional leisure in advice as to its local management. Natalie de Santos goes forth with them. Her home in Paris awaits her. The Golden State knows her no more. Her feet will never wander back to the shores where her stormy youth was passed. A lover's pilgrimage to beloved Paris and the old castle by the blue waters of Lake Geneva claims the Lord and Lady of Lagunitas. For, they will return to dwell in the mountains of Mariposa. Before they cross the broad Atlantic, they have a sacred duty to perform. It is to visit the grave of the soldier of the Lost Cause and lay their wreaths upon the turf which covers his gallant breast. The old padre sits on the porch of his house at Lagunitas. He waits only for the last solemn act. Henry Peyton is to follow the travellers East, and remove the soldier of the gray to the little chapel grounds of Lagunitas. When Padre Francisco has seen the master come home, and raised his weakening voice in requiem over the friend of his youth, he will seek once more his dear Paris, and find again his cloistered home near Notre Dame. He has, as a memorial of mother and daughter, a deed of the old home of Philip Hardin. It is given to the Church for a hospital. It is well so. None of the living ever wish to pass again its shadowed portals. While waiting the time for their departure, the priest and Henry Peyton watch the splendid beauties of Lagunitas, in peaceful brotherhood. The man of war and the servant of peace are drawn towards each other strangely. The Virginian often gazes on the sword of Maxime Valois, hanging now over the hearthplace he left in his devotion to the Lost Cause. He thanks God that the children of the old blood are in the enjoyment of their birthright. Padre Francisco, telling his beads, or whiling an hour away with his breviary, begins to nod easily as the lovely summer days deepen in splendor. He is an old man now, yet his heart is touched with the knowledge of God's infinite mercy as he looks over the low wall to where the roses bloom around: the grave of Dolores Valois. He hopes to live yet to know, that gallant father and patient mother will live over again in the happy faces of the children of their orphaned child.