As the sun was going down on the evening of the sixteenth, Dorothy, who had been helping now one and now another of the ladies all day long, having, indeed, little of her own to demand her attention, Dick and Marquis being almost her sole valuables, came from the keep, and was crossing the fountain court to her old room on its western side.  Every one was busy indoors, and the place appeared deserted.  There was a stillness in the air that sounded awful.  For so many weeks it had been shattered with roar upon roar, and now the guns had ceased to bellow, leaving a sense of vacancy and doubt, an oppression of silence.  The hum that came from the lines outside seemed but to enhance the stillness within.  But the sunlight lived on sweet and calm, as if all was well.  It seemed to promise that wrath and ruin would pass, and leave no lasting desolation behind them.  Yet she could not help heaving a great sigh, and the tears came streaming down her cheeks.

’Tut, tut, cousin!  Wipe thine eyes.  The dreary old house is not worth such bright tears.’

Dorothy turned, and saw the marquis seated on the edge of the marble basin, under the headless horse, whose blood seemed still to well from his truncated form.  She saw also that, although his words were cheerful, his lip quivered.  It was some little time before she could compose herself sufficiently to speak.

‘I marvel your lordship is so calm,’ she said.

‘Come hither, Dorothy,’ he returned kindly, ’and sit thee down by my side.  Thou wast right good to my little Molly.  Thou hast been a ministering angel to Raglan and its people.  I did thee wrong, and thou forgavest me with a whole heart.  Thou hast returned me good for evil tenfold, and for all this I love thee; and therefore will I now tell thee what maketh me quiet at heart, for I am as thou seest me, and my heart is as my countenance.  I have lived my life, and have now but to die my death.  I am thankful to have lived, and I hope to live hereafter.  Goodness and mercy went before my birth, and goodness and mercy will follow my death.  For the ills of this life, if there was no silence there would be no music.  Ignorance is a spur to knowledge.  Darkness is a pavilion for the Almighty, a foil to the painter to make his shadows.  So are afflictions good for our instruction, and adversities for our amendment.  As for the article of death, shall I shun to meet what she who lay in my bosom hath passed through?  And look you, fair damsel, thou whose body is sweet, and comely to behold—­wherefore should I not rejoice to depart?  When I see my house lying in ruins about me, I look down upon this ugly overgrown body of mine, the very foundations whereof crumble from beneath me, and I thank God it is but a tent, and no enduring house even like this house of Raglan, which yet will ere long be a dwelling of owls and foxes.  Very soon will Death pull out the tent-pins and let me fly, and therefore am I glad;