of it, lie must always insensibly associate
her with the grimness of that terrible end.
Gradually he would learn how their last
words had been words of anger and defiance.
She preferred that he should always think
of her as she was, than run any risk of his
being changed to her. It would be for the
best to end it all at once.

Yet when she came to write she wanted
heart. The old question recurred, what
had she done, why should she offer her
whole life and happiness as an expiatory
offering to one who would have spared her
nothing? He was gone, and she might
put off the letter until to-morrow. Then
another day went by, and another. In
fact, she had not heart to take such a step.
She could wait.

Then began a weary time for her, one
of suspense and anxiety. Gradually the
gossips came to have done with this all but
inexhaustible subject, having discounted it
in every conceivable way. The place was
shut up, Sir Charles was gone away, never
to return, and it was known that the handsome
castle would soon be offered for sale.
A stone cross had been put up on the spot
where the heiress had met her death,
whither many a walk was taken on Sunday
evenings, and where, to inquiring little
children, the story was told in all mystery.

Weeks, months passed by, and she heard
nothing of Conway. Facts and rumours
came down of what was doing as respects
the estate, the breaking up of the establishment,
the great sale, the proceedings in
Chancery, in fact, all the usual incidents of
clearing decks, throwing overboard, cutting
away masts, which attend such wrecks, and
which often will not save the ship. It was
certain, however, that the most vigorous
and resolute measures were being taken,
and there was evidence of some decided and
thorough spirit being at work.

CHAPTER III. THE NEW MONUMENT.

AT last nearly a year went by, a time
more than sufficient to save or to destroy.
Still there came no tidings. Then the
doctor heard that the family had gone
abroad, and he told the news, with a fitting
contempt, that "they were broke horse and
foot," but had contrived to save something
out of the fire. This charge may have been
owing to the doctor's constitutional
contempt for poverty in general, and reverses
in particular, but was more specially
connected with accurate news he had received
of the flourishing health of the incumbent
whose living had been promised to him, and
who had returned from the Homburg
waters with a fresh stock of vitality.

As the space between that scene on the
river gradually widened, and newer
associations of regret and tenderness for the
victim were quite softening away all ugly
memories, Jessica felt every hour an
increasing certainty that this was the
solution. Conway must naturally turn his
eyes away from that spot, where he had
found such pain and trouble, and even a
little bit of tragedy. He would be glad to
have done with it, and his vague and
generous promise need not stand in the way.

Meanwhile, Knollys, R.A., had been
diligently at work, and had completed a
memorial which was much admired in town.
The doctor had volunteered a Latin inscription,
which he had forced with much importunity
on the father with many a "Leave
it to me, Sir Charles. I'll find something
classical." In the club, and in many a
house in the town, he was for ever pulling
out his bit of paper, with the "rough draft"
of this inscription, and grew testy and even
insolent, when anything like an emendation
was suggested. It ran something after this
fashion:

HIC · DEPOSITUM · EST

OMNE · QUOD · SUPEREST.

MORTALE.

LAURÆ.

CAROLI · PANTONI · BARONETTÆ ·

FILIA · DILECTISSIMA.

And expatiated a good deal on her being
"endowed with abundant wealth, and great
tracts of land, and having left her weeping
father and loving friends to sorrow inconsolable."
In short, to do the doctor justice,
it was a very fair reproduction of the
correct mortuary inscriptions.

In due time great cases came down by
train along with workmen, and the
memorial was set up in the church. Knollys,
R.A., had done his best—which did not
travel beyond a limited area. The result
was a Gothic marble canopy, with the
snowy figure reposing beneath, as if asleep,
her arms upon her breast and her hands
crossed. They had been at work for
three or four days, and on the Saturday
were trying hard to get all finished by
the Sunday. About seven o'clock it was
ready; the men had gathered up their
tools and gone away; a gas lamp or two
was still flaring, and by-and-bye they
would come and sweep away the dust and
fragments. The light played in curious
coloured shadows on the low-lying marble