r sternly back and put out efforts to solace and quiet mine.
In these years he has grown stronger, but become ascetic towards the
outer world--an Ishmaelite who cares not to own himself a son of
Abraham, but lives wild in the deserts of philosophy on locusts and wild
honey. He will never marry, but has devoted himself to the problems of
the Secret of the World, in which he too believes, though his studies
have led him far more scientifically than me; and yet in his hours of
thought, I know that a vision of beauty and a sweet voice will often
startle him, and he rises then into scenes of his loftiest, grandest
life. O, Alexandra! Alexandra!

CONCLUSION OF CHAMILLY HAVILAND'S NARRATIVE.

CHAPTER XLV.

_NOT_ THE END.

"Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis."

--PS. CXIV.

When Chrysler came to this sad close of the story, he woke from his
absorption in the manuscript and became conscious of, the surroundings.
The late hour, the strange place, even the silent-burning candles, and
above all the shock of grief for Chamilly at his great bereavement,
oppressed him into deep loneliness. The wind dashed gusts of rain
against the casement and shook it savagely. He thought of the storm and
blackness without--how the tempest must be hounding the black waves--the
wolfish ferocity of their onward rushes--the dread battle any mortal
would fight who found himself among them on a night like this.

Is Chamilly safe at home again?

Of course, at this hour.

What an unusual fellow. How strange to enjoy such beating rain, such
blinding darkness and fierce contest of strength with nature! How
fearless! How few like him in this or any virtue! Did there in fact
exist another his equal!

No; Haviland stood alone--the climax of a race.

As Chrysler pondered, dull sounds reached him, breaking in on these
meditations. A door opened below, and heavy feet tramped in. Voices, and
then cries of alarm, and then lamentations of all the household startled
him. Steps sounded coming up the stairs, and a man's sob, and then a
gentle knock.

"Open!" Chrysler responded.

Pierre entered, the picture of woe, and broke down: "O monseigneur
Monseigneur Chamilly is dead."

They had found his boat and his body, washed ashore.

The windows of the Parish Church were darkened with thick black
curtains, the altar was heavily draped, the strains of the mournful Mass
of the Dead swayed to the responses of a sorrowing p