"It shall be done."
"My mother—does she know I am here?"
"No one knows but me."
"Then tell her not of my coming. I hope to reach France, and if so will send you word. Till then tell her nothing. And now go; you must be nigh spent with what has taken place to-night. But 'twas bravely done, and has saved my neck. I heard every word as you led that bear on his wild-goose chase. And you uttered no wiser one than the 'Oh!' as you feigned to tread on something sharp and hurt your foot. But away with you. We will talk of all this in happier days to come, please God. I would I could kiss you once. But it may not be. Keep a brave heart, little girl, and Father Anthony shall enjoy his own again in good time."
"Farewell, Father Anthony, and the saints have you in their keeping!"
And again there was silence over Combe Abbey, save for a rustling in the ivy.
More years have passed, and merry England is itself once more. Laughter and mirth have ascended the throne side by side with the restored king. And nowhere in all the land is there more happiness than at Combe Abbey in the "West Countree." The lord of the soil is home again, and the villagers are busy with evergreens and wreaths, since on the morrow he takes to wife his cousin, Cecily Wharton. And as the happy couple, seated side by side with Lady Travers beneath the copper-beach, gaze on the old grey Abbey and the empty niche, their thoughts revert to the night when it afforded shelter to the second Father Anthony.
[THE END.]
