So, splendid dreams, and slumbers sweet,
  To each and all—­Good Night.

  WILLIAM E. HURLOUT.

Here might this tale be permitted to end, were it not that a doubt has arisen in my mind whether some particulars do not need explanation.  Doubtless the nimble wits of the sagacious have fathomed to their satisfaction all that seemed mysterious; but there may be others who, either less imaginative or more indolent, would like an elaborate elucidation.  These latter I invite to accompany me across the blue Atlantic to the pleasant town of Exeter, in the lovely county of Devon, in England.

In the nave of the splendid old cathedral of that town, two men, engaged in conversation, are walking backwards and forwards, one of whom we recognize as the Knight of the Golden Melice; the other is a stranger.  Through the stained glass, the dim light of a winter’s afternoon falls indistinctly on the stone floor, while from behind the screen which separates the open area where they are pacing from the portion devoted to religious worship, the solemn tones of an organ (for it is the time of evening service) are floating around the massy pillars and among the sculptured arches, as if imploring saintly rest for the high born nobles and reverend bishops who, for hundreds of years, have lain in their marble tombs around.  None are present save the two, and, as with reverent feet they tread, they seem dwarfed into children by the huge proportions of the building.

“Two beings more blessed with mutual affection than the young Earl of Cliffmere and his lovely countess I know not,” said the Knight, continuing the conversation.  “Three weeks remained I with them in their magnificent palace at London, the attractions whereof were tenfold heightened by his courteous bearing and her graciousness.  Nor could I without difficulty tear myself away, so lovingly they delighted to dwell upon the time when, as Miles Arundel, he wooed Eveline Dunning, or hunted with me, in the wilds of America, and so sweet were their attentions to my chafed spirit.  With them is my trusty Philip, whose trials are now over, while he basks in the favor of the Earl and the smiles of the pretty Prudence, his wife, undisturbed save by her occasional coquetry, which only serves, I suppose, to make his love more piquant.”

“A pleasing episode in your romantic life,” said the stranger; but know you perfectly how you came to leave America so suddenly?”

“There is a mystery connected therewith which hath ever puzzled me,” replied the Knight.

“How felt you in reference to the plan of converting an English into a French colony?”

“I did never either feel therefor inclination, or give it the approbation of my judgment.  I cannot forget that I am an Englishman.”

“And did Sister Celestina know your sentiments?” inquired the stranger.

“Surely.  Wherefore should I have hesitated to bestow on one so devoted my absolute confidence?”