Part 34 (1/2)

Then they prayed for her everlasting rest--not joy. The thought of active bliss could hardly be a.s.sociated 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 compa.s.sionate 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d for our happy life, and love each other as much as we can.”

A hand which she had not known was there was laid upon her head.

”Thinkest thou we can do that, my Phyllis, any better than now?” asked Sir Norman Hylton.

”We can all try,” said Amphillis, softly. ”And G.o.d, our G.o.d, shall bless us.”