Is Grimes dead? No! He lives to-day, buckles on his armour, and with a grim, brave look in his English eyes goes forth to battle, that the helpless may live.

And Pauline? She still sings of England to exiled men, wherever Waylao has wept for her race in the savage, ravished South.

I often hear their old songs as the winds and birds sing in the windy poplars, in the green woods and English fields. I never go forth in the summer nights but I can hear her shadow-feet pattering down the dusky lanes beside me, and the sweetest songs of far-off romance echo in my ears. Ah! could I catch the beauty of those songs, what a composer would I be. But I can only write down the spindrift of those glorious strains.

I often sit dreaming far into the night. It is then that she comes back from the shadows and kneels with me at the altar of my dreams—and sings some far-off strain of my beautiful, dead Romance.