"I strove," said Etienne, at last breaking the long silence, "to be a son to her, in place of the ill-fated boy whom I so cruelly slew; nor were my efforts in vain, or my repentance unaccepted. We built her a house, on the site of her ancient cottage, and when strife arose, we often submitted the matter to her judgment, and she, who had been the foster mother of one lord, and the preserver from death of the other, reconciled the followers of both. "When at last the hour came for her to commit her sweet soul to God, I stood by her dying bed. "'Mother,' said I, 'what can I do when thou art gone to show my love for thy memory?' "'Only go on as thou hast begun,' she replied, 'be a father to all thy people, Englishman and Norman alike, and their prayers will succour thee at the judgment seat of God--I go into peace.' "And she left peace behind her--" Here Etienne could say no more, and the two "rival heirs" stood a long time gazing upon the "cold marble and the sculptured stone," while tears which were no disgrace to their manhood fell like gentle rain from heaven. Soon after this Wilfred had a long conference with Prior Kenelm. The result was, that he announced his intention of retiring from the world and ending his days in the cloister. His years had been years of strife and tumult--he would give the residue to God. So he entered the famous order of St. Benedict, and after the death of Father Kenelm became the prior of the monastery dedicated to his patron saint--founded by his own forefathers. His greatest joy was when surrounded by his nephews and nieces--yea, great-nephews and great-nieces, after the happy marriage of Edward of Aescendune to Lady Agatha of Wilmcote. Etienne and Edith lived blessed in each other's love to the end. The Norman estates fell to Hugh, the English ones to Edward, who not unworthily represented both English and Norman lines--"a knight without fear and without reproach." The last years of our hero, Wilfred, were years of tranquil happiness and serene joy, such as Milton wrote of in later ages, in those lines of wondrous beauty: "Let my due feet never fail To walk the cloisters hallowed pale, With storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religions light, And let the pealing organ blow To the foil-voiced choir below, Bring all heaven before mine eyes, Dissolve me into ecstasies." In the ruins of the abbey of St. Wilfred the spectator may notice a cross-legged knight, whose feet rest upon a vanquished lion. His whole attitude is expressive of intense action; the muscles seem strained in the effort to draw his sword and demolish a Turk, while the face expresses all that is noble in manly courage. Hard by lies a prior in his vestments, his hands meekly clasped. The colour has not yet quite faded, which embellished the statue; but the remarkable thing is the face. Even yet, in spite of the broken and mouldering stone, there is a calmness of repose about that face which is simply wonderful.