The earl did not refuse, you may be sure, and the next morning there was a quiet, solemn marriage in the sick-room, where Lady Edith Chilton gave heart and hand to Douglas North, and so ended the Minstrel’s Curse. Old Katharine was there, weeping for blended joy and sorrow--joy that the curse was void forever, sorrow that bonny Douglas North must die and leave his young bride desolate. But physicians are not always infallible, or perhaps love has some potent power that can conquer death. Douglas North did not die of the wound he had received from the unknown courtier. I will show you one more picture of his life ere I write that solemn word, the End. It is almost the same picture you saw in the beginning. He is sitting with Lady Edith at the grand piano in the Chilton drawing room, his fingers wandering softly over the pearl keys. He has inherited, not only the name but the musical talent of his ancestor, Douglas North. He looks very handsome, very distinguished to the fair young wife by his side. How lovely she is, with her golden tresses floating over her white robe like a halo of light! He looks at her in passionate admiration. “My darling, you are beautiful as an angel!” he says. “Did I ever!” cries a shocked voice, and old Katharine, passing by, shakes her head at the married lovers. “Mr. Douglas North, that’s simple profanity, calling your wife an angel. You’ll be punished for it,” she said. Lady Edith’s sweet, ringing laugh woke all the echoes in the long, magnificent room. “Nurse Kathie will never be anything but a croaker,” she says. “Giddy children, silly children!” responds the old crone, passing out. Lord Eustace enters with his usual companion, a book, his fine, scholarly face lighted up with pleasure. “Katharine has made me a present,” he said, showing an old moth-eaten volume. “Here, it is--full of marvelous traditions of the Chilton race, and last but not least, The Ministrel’s Curse.” Lady Edith shuddered at the words, but Douglas North took the book and read the quaint verses with deep interest. “‘And Douglas and his love shall know the bliss I was denied,’” he repeats, in a musing tone. “Well, Edith the prophecy comes true. We are indeed blest,” and he returns the volume to its proud owner with a sigh to the memory of his fated ancestor and the lovely lady whom he loved. “By the way,” he added, “I have never heard what became of that fair Lady Edith.” “Oh,” says Lord Eustace, “she married an earl, as this musty chronicle relates; but it says, also, that she died three years after of a broken heart.” “Eustace,” calls his uncle’s voice in the hall, “here is that box of new books you ordered from London.” The book-worm rushes out in eager haste, and Douglas, drawing his wife to his heart, kisses off the dew of tears from her lashes. “They are at rest after their blighted life,” he whispers, reverently. “Sing for me, Douglas dear. Sing something sad, and sweet, and tender.”