f March, 1374, Perrote folded the aged, wasted hands upon
the now quiet breast.

"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.

"Bu