But all was ended now, the hopes, the plans, the longings. All those future lives, the beloved daughter-in-law, the children that were to call her grandmother, were buried with Francis in his vast and wandering grave in old ocean’s deeps. The winds and the waves as they sounded ceaselessly in her ears seemed to moan their requiem. Then one day there came shambling up the steps at The Lodge a rollicking-looking fellow in sailor garb, not too clean or tidy, and with a rough, hairy face, not too frank or honest in expression. He put out a grimy paw and rang the door-bell as loudly as though he were the bearer of good news instead of a vulture of fate. It was the same day on which Italy Vale sat waiting impatiently for her answer from Mr. Gardner. The early autumn twilight was hurrying on, and the sea was veiled in rising white mists. Lights already glimmered through the windows of The Lodge, for the desolate mistress could not bear the darkness and her own sad thoughts. The loud bell-pull resounded through the quiet house, and presently there appeared before Mrs. Murray a respectful servant announcing that a sailor-man was waiting in the little reception-room to see her on important business. A sailor-man! Who could it be? Perhaps--oh, could it be? he might bring--_news_? Her heart throbbed almost to suffocation. She staggered in her wild haste to reach the man’s presence. He rose up before the stately pale-faced lady, and bowed awkwardly. “You--you--bring me news--perhaps?” she faltered tremulously. “Yes, of your son, lady. On the night of the twenty-fourth of August I was on board a sailing craft hereabouts, and in a fog we ran into a little dory and cut it in half. Directly afterward we picked up a man in the water with his head cut very bad. Oh, lady, I’m sorry to pain you, but he died in a few hours later.” “My son!” she cried in a voice of mortal agony, and seemed to collapse in her chair, a white senseless heap. The sailor went closer, and shook her rudely. “Please, lady, don’t go off like that till I’m done my story. I’m in a hurry to go.” Her eyes opened and stared at him blankly, as he continued: “The man said as how his name was Francis Murray, and he offered us big money to put him ashore here, but we was bound for Buenos Ayres with a cargo, and didn’t want to put back; besides we didn’t know as he could pay us like he said or not. So we told him no, and our surgeon told him he had to die, so if he wanted to leave any message for his friends he’d better. Then he got the surgeon to write a letter to his mother, and he signed it. He was too far gone to do much, but then he wrote the address, and I promised that when we came back from the voyage I’d bring you the letter, that’s all, and we buried him the same night at sea.”