THE LADY PILGRIM. 93 
bosom but a few months. They made his mound 
beside hers, and left them without sign or stone to 
mark their resting-place. 
Years afterwards, there swept out from one of 
the castles of the old world a funeral pageant. 
There was all the insignia of grief that wealth 
could command. Long trains of mourners, richly 
clad in black, passed through the fretted vaults and 
long aisles of the cathedral, and paused at last be¬ 
side a tomb, almost meet for the resting-place of 
kings. 
The Luke of Devonshire was dead, and royalty 
paid his dust due honors. The domestics, left at 
home to superintend affairs during the absence of 
the mourners, swept out from the bosom of the 
richly-wrought vestments the duke last wore a 
withered blush rose. None knew its history — 
none even noticed its fall. The heart near which 
it had so long lain had ceased to beat forever. 
Miss C. W. Barber. 
.Note. —We have taken the liberty to omit some portions of this 
most interesting story, in order to bring it within the limits of our 
work. We trust the author will excuse us. — Ed. Life among the 
Flowers. 
* / 
