er; and now come here, Ida, my
love, and give me a kiss. You have been a good daughter all your life,
and so Quaritch may be sure that you will be a good wife too."

Ida did as she was bid. Then she went over to her lover and took him
by his hand, and he kissed her on the forehead. And thus after all
their troubles they finally ratified the contract.

* * * * *

And we, who have followed them thus far, and have perhaps been a
little moved by their struggles, hopes, and fears, will surely not
grudge to re-echo the Squire's old-fashioned prayer, "God bless them
both."

God bless them both. Long may they live, and happily.

Long may they live, and for very long may their children's children of
the race, if not of the name of de la Molle, pass in and out through
the old Norman gateway and by the sturdy Norman towers. The Boisseys,
who built them, here had their habitation for six generations. The de
la Molles who wedded the heiress of the Boisseys lived here for
thirteen generations. May the Quaritchs whose ancestor married Ida,
heiress of the de la Molles, endure as long!

Surely it is permitted to us to lift a corner of the curtain of
futurity and in spirit see Ida Quaritch, stately and beautiful as we
knew her, but of a happier countenance. We see her seated on some
Christmas Eve to come in the drawing-room of the Castle, telling to
the children at her knees the wonderful tale of how their father and
old George on this very night, when the gale blew long years ago,
discovered the ruddy pile of gold, hoarded in that awful storehouse
amid the bones of Saxon or Danish heroes, and thus saved her to be
their mother. We can see their wide wondering eyes and fixed faces, as
for the tenth time they listen to a story before which the joys of
Crusoe will grow pale. We can hear the eager appeal for details made
to the military-looking gentleman, very grizzled now, but grown
better-looking with the advancing years, who is standing before the
fire, the best, most beloved husband and father in all that country
side.

Perhaps there may be a vacant chair, and another tomb among the ranks
of the departed de la Molles; perhaps the ancient walls will no longer
echo to the sound of the Squire's stentorian voice. And what of that?
It is our common lot.

But when he goes the country side will lose a man of whom they will
not see the like again, for the breed is dead or dying; a man whose
ve