There stood Peter Ascott, pompous as ever, but with a certain kindly good-humor lightening up his heavy face, looking condescendingly around him, and occasionally rubbing his hands slowly together, as if he were exceedingly well pleased with himself.  There stood Ascott Leaf, looking bright and handsome, in spite of his shabbiness, and quite at his ease—­which small peculiarity was never likely to be knocked out of him under the most depressing circumstances.

He shook hands with Elizabeth warmly.

“I wanted to ask you if you have any message for Liverpool.  I go there to-morrow on business for Mr. Ascott, and afterward I shall probably go and see my aunts.”  He faltered a moment, but quickly shook the emotion off.  “Of course, I shall tell them all about you, Elizabeth.  Any special message, eh?”

“Only my duty, Sir, and Master Henry is quite well again,” said Elizabeth, formally, and dropping her old-fashioned courtesy; after which, as quickly as she could, she slipped out of the dining-room.

But, long, long after, when all the house was gone to bed, she stood at the nurser window, looking down upon the trees of the square, that stretched their motionless arms up into the moonlight sky—­just such a moonlight as it was once, more than three years ago, the night little Henry was born.  And she recalled all the past, from the day when Miss Hilary hung up her bonnet for her in the house-place at Stowbury; the dreary life at No. 15; the Sunday nights when she and Tom Cliffe used to go wandering round and round the square.

“Poor Tom,” said she to herself, thinking of Ascott Leaf, and how happy he had looked, and how happy his aunts would be to-morrow.  “Well, Tom would be glad too, if he knew all.”

But, happy as every body was, there was nothing so close to Elizabeth’s heart as the one grave over which the snow was now lying, white and peaceful, out at Kensal Green.

Elizabeth is still living—­which is a great blessing, for nobody could well do without her.  She will probably attain a good old age; being healthy and strong, very equable in temper now, and very cheerful too, in her quiet way.

Doubtless, she will yet have Master Henry’s children climbing her knees, and calling her “Mammy Lizzie.”

But she will never marry—­She never loved any body but Tom.

The end.