Home we went. Old Stephen was standing at the door. A senile resentment was on his face: he looked as if he hated us. ‘She’s come back,’ he said in a broken voice. ‘Poor lass! poor lass!’ Mary ran forward, her face glowing with joy. She had never harboured an ill-feeling against her sister. ‘Where is she?’ she asked. ‘Did you tell her, Stephen?’ ‘No, Miss Mary, I didn’t. She knew about it, though, I’ll be bound! Perhaps Mr. Eyre had best go alone to find her!’ But my true love clasped my arm. ‘Let me come too,’ she said. ‘Stephen, tell us where she is.’ ‘She’s sought you at th’ old stone dragon, where ye were always a-sitting in th’ old time. Ye’ll find her there right enow.’ The man burst out sobbing as we hurried down the staircase. To me there came a terrible fear, but Mary had a bride’s blitheness. We reached the Italian garden. A travel-stained form lay beside the dragon. The face was buried in the thick wild thyme, but a bright web of red-golden hair was spread over the lichened stone. Mary knelt and strove to turn her. ‘My darling,’ she said. ‘How much I have missed you. It was tender of you to come to-day. Though I love Rafe so, you were always most dear and wonderful to me!’ After much effort she raised Rachel’s head to her lap. The beautiful features had sharpened strangely and the skin was ashen grey. ‘O my God! O Rafe!’ my wife shrieked. ‘She is cold; _she is dead_!’ THE MANUSCRIPT OF FRANCIS SHACKERLEY (_Being a True Account of the Most Noble Lady, the Lady Millicent Campion._) Since that news has come this day of Sir Humphreville Campion--a death strangely caused by the bursting of an alembic--there is naught to hinder me from taking up my drowsy pen and writing a true history of certain matters that caused no small wonder in their day. True it is that I would liefer work in my garden amongst the simples and flowers, for since the last affairs to be narrated in my history, all thought has been painful to me, and the world a place rather to endure than to dwell in. There is a quiet joy in the breeding of small cattle and the growth of crops; but to one who has tasted of life’s sweetness such pleasure is wondrously pitiable. We met first in 1611. My father’s coach, as we were travelling to Sherenesse Manor, where dwelt my aunt Bargrave, broke down outside the village of Stratton--the left sling being over-chafed. How it came about I know not, but in the scuffle, when my folks were hastening back to the inn, I stole unnoticed across the road to a mossy wall, and, filled with arrant mischief, leaped over and ran panting along the sward. Monstrous elms, with contorted boles, stood about: it was springtide and the leaves were freshly green; in the branches overhead squirrels played and squeaked.