were in his keeping, and because he felt
boastfully confident of being able to escape again, whenever he pleased.
Be his secret motives, however, what they might, he allowed the agent to
conduct him peaceably from the Grange; first writing a farewell
letter to poor Rosamond, full of heartless French sentiment and glib
sophistries about Fate and Society. His own fate was not long in
overtaking him. He attempted to escape again, as it had been expected
he would, and was shot by the sentinel on duty at the time. I remember
hearing that the bullet entered his head and killed him on the spot.

My story is done. It is ten years now since Rosamond was buried in the
churchyard yonder; and it is ten years also since Miss Welwyn returned
to be the lonely inhabitant of Glenwith Grange. She now lives but in
the remembrances that it calls up before her of her happier existence of
former days. There is hardly an object in the old house which does not
tenderly and solemnly remind her of the mother, whose last wishes she
lived to obey; of the sister, whose happiness was once her dearest
earthly care. Those prints that you noticed on the library walls
Rosamond used to copy in the past time, when her pencil was often guided
by Ida's hand. Those music-books that you were looking over, she and her
mother have played from together through many a long and quiet summer's
evening. She has no ties now to bind her to the present but the poor
child whose affliction it is her constant effort to lighten, and the
little peasant population around her, whose humble cares and wants
and sorrows she is always ready to relieve. Far and near her modest
charities have penetrated among us; and far and near she is heartily
beloved and blessed in many a laborer's household. There is no poor
man's hearth, not in this village only, but for miles away from it as
well, at which you would not be received with the welcome given to an
old friend, if you only told the cottagers that you knew the Lady of
Glenwith Grange!

PROLOGUE TO THE FIFTH STORY.

The next piece of work which occupied my attention after taking leave
of Mr. Garthwaite, offered the strongest possible contrast to the task
which had last engaged me. Fresh from painting a bull at a farmhouse,
I set forth to copy a Holy Family, by Correggio, at a convent of nuns.
People who go to the Royal Academy Exhibition, and see pictures by
famous artists, painted year after year in the same marked style which
f