"All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, All the dull, deep pain, and the constant anguish of patience! And as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, `Father, I thank Thee!'" The fate which had harassed poor Marguerite in life pursued her to the very grave. There was no sumptuous funeral, no solemn hearse, no regal banners of arms for her. Had there been any such thing, it would have left its trace on the Wardrobe Rolls of the year. There was not even a court mourning. It was usual then for the funerals of royal persons to be deferred for months after the death, in order to make the ceremony more magnificent. But now, in the twilight of the second evening, which was Monday, a quiet procession came silently across from the Manor House to the church, headed by Father Jordan; twelve poor men bore torches beside the bier; the Mass for the Dead was softly sung, and those beautiful, pathetic words which for ages rose beside the waiting coffin:-- "King of awful majesty, By Thy mercy full and free, Fount of mercy, pardon me! "Think, O Saviour, in what way On Thine head my trespass lay; Let me not be lost that day! "Thou wert weary seeking me; On Thy cross Thou mad'st me free; Lose not all Thine agony!" Then they prayed for her everlasting rest--not joy. The thought of active bliss could hardly be associated with that weary soul. "Jesus, grant her Thine eternal rest!" And the villagers crept round with bared heads, and whispered to one another that they were burying the White Lady--that mysterious prisoner whom no one ever saw, who never came to church, nor set foot outside the walls of her prison; and they dimly guessed some thousandth part of the past pathos of that shadowed life, and they joined in the Amen. And over her grave were set up no sculptured figure and table tomb, only one slab of pure white marble, carved with a cross, and beneath it, the sole epitaph of Marguerite of Flanders, the heroine of Hennebon,--"Mercy, Jesu!" So they left her to her rest. Ten years later, in a quiet Manor House near Furness Abbey, a knight's wife was telling a story to her three little girls. "And you called me after her, Mother!" said little fair-haired Margaret. "But what became of the naughty man who didn't want to come and see his poor mother when she was so sick and unhappy, Mother?" asked compassionate little Regina. "Naughty man!" echoed Baby Perrotine. Lady Hylton stroked her little Margaret's hair. "He led not a happy life, my darlings; but we will not talk about him. Ay, little Meg, I called thee after the poor White Lady. I pray God thou mayest give thine heart to Him earlier than she did, and not have to walk with weary feet along her wilderness way. Let us thank God for our happy life, and love each other as much as we can."