"He killed my father--recollect," Lucie remarked, in a hard voice. "And was it not through your father--whose memory we should bury from to-day--that my poor friend and your lover, Manuel Carrera, died?" asked Sammy gravely. Then a silence fell between all four of us. I was looking into the clear blue eyes of my well-beloved. All of us were preoccupied by our own thoughts. From out the dark tragedy had at last shone the light of truth. After those years of grief and bitterness, of loneliness and yearning, Ella, my dear one, had been given back to me once more. She no longer wore the iron mask that she had borne so staunchly. Our lips met again. She gazed into my eyes, and then she burst into tears--tears of joy. The fetters that bound her to the man she hated had been broken, and she stood there, sweet, pure, innocent and free-- free to be mine--mine for ever. "My love," I said, heedless that we were not alone, "this affection of ours is greater than death, great as eternity itself; a love that shall leave earth with us when our souls leave our bodies and reach its uttermost perfection in other lives, in other worlds; a love that time cannot chill, nor any woe appal, nor any man unsever. God Himself has united us, and none can now place us asunder." CHAPTER FORTY. CONCLUSION. To-day I am seated in the long old library at Wichenford where, at the big writing-table set in the deep window, I have spent so many hours putting down in black and white this curious chronicle of the evil that men do. The last blank folios lie before me. What more need I tell you? To describe the perfect happiness that now is mine would require still another volume. Ella--my own sweet Ella who was so nearly lost to me-- became my wife a little over a year ago. She is seated in a long wicker chair at my side, while the summer sunset falling through the high old diamond-panes shines upon her fresh open countenance and tints her beautiful hair with gold. It is the evening of a calm day, and a similar tranquillity seems to have fallen upon our lives, for a great peace has come to us in this stately old place that everywhere speaks mutely of the dignity of the Murrays. Delightful indeed it is to be back again in England and no longer a wanderer, for Mr Murray has given over Wichenford to us for our home, and he in his turn is travelling in the Far East. Of Dr Gavazzi we heard news not long ago. He is in Vienna, living, we suppose, upon his share of that money taken from his master's secret hiding-place, while Himes, having returned to America, was, we saw in the papers, two months ago sentenced in New York to three years with hard labour for stealing a dressing-bag from a lady while travelling on the "Chicago Limited."