For long years afterward the young husband was to carry with him the memory of that green grassy grave.

A plain white cross bore for the present her name; it said simply: In Loving Memory of MADALINE CHARLEWOOD, who died in her 20th year.
ERECTED BY HER SORROWING HUSBAND.
"When I give her the monument she deserves," he said.

"I can add no more." They speak of that funeral to this day in Castledene--of the sad, tragic story, the fair young mother's death, the husband's wild despair.

They tell how the beautiful stranger was buried when the sun shone and the birds sang--how solemnly the church-bell tolled, each knell seeming to cleave the clear sunlit air--how the sorrowing young husband, so suddenly and so terribly bereft, walked first, the chief mourner in the sad procession; they tell how white his face was, and how at each toll of the solemn bell he winced as though some one had struck him a terrible blow--how he tried hard to control himself, but how at the grave, when she was hidden forever from his sight, he stretched out his hands, crying, "Madaline, Madaline!" and how for the remainder of that day he shut himself up alone, refusing to hear the sound of a voice, to look at a human face--refusing food, comfort, grieving like one who has no hope for the love he had lost.

All Castledene grieved with him; it seemed as though death and sorrow had entered every house.
Then came the morrow, when he had to look his life in the face again--life that he found so bitter without Madaline.