wrong, but I would try to atone--but why am I telling you all this, you
who ought to hate and despise me, I who have ruined your life. Oh! my
God! my God! have mercy--' And with a paroxysm of grief, she lays her
head on the little green mound.

A strange sight the old vicar sees as he passes through the long grass
on his way to the church; a tall man in flannels gazing down on the
figure of a woman, kneeling before him, divided only by a small grave,
and a little golden-haired child looking at them wonderingly; he has
spoken to the child before and now she leaves the other two and follows
him into the sacred edifice.

The bell begins to toll for even-song, but neither Paul nor Clotilde
move, so close they are together, only the past lies between them. A
small cross marks the grave of their child, whereon his name, and age
(but a few months) is inscribed.

Paul reads the inscription though he knows it only too well, and then he
once more rests his gaze on the woman before him; the woman he once
loved! nay, does still love, for a great desire to comfort her comes
over him.

'Clotilde,' he says at length, 'let us forget the past. Come.'

He takes her by the hand and he leads her gently to the church, up the
aisle they go, and side by side they kneel; and the old clergyman is not
surprised to see them, and the little golden-haired child watches them
from another pew.