place, I retain mine to her name,--Nostris liberis virtutis exemplar."

Graham wrung his cousin's hand-he could not speak, choked by suppressed
tears.

The Duchess, who loved and honoured Lady Janet almost as much as did her
husband, fairly sobbed aloud. She had, indeed, reason for grateful
memories of the deceased: there had been some obstacles to her marriage
with the man who had won her heart, arising from political differences
and family feuds between their parents, which the gentle meditation of
Lady Janet had smoothed away. And never did union founded on mutual and
ardent love more belie the assertions of the great Bichat (esteemed by
Dr. Buckle the finest intellect which practical philosophy has exhibited
since Aristotle), that "Love is a sort of fever which does not last
beyond two years," than that between those eccentric specimens of a class
denounced as frivolous and artless by philosophers, English and French,
who have certainly never heard of Bichat.

When the emotion the Duke had exhibited was calmed down, his wife pushed
towards Graham a sheet of paper, inscribed with the epitaph composed by
his hand. "Is it not beautiful," she said, falteringly--"not a word too
much or too little?"

Graham read the inscription slowly, and with very dimmed eyes. It
deserved the praise bestowed on it; for the Duke, though a shy and
awkward speaker, was an incisive and graceful writer.

Yet, in his innermost self, Graham shivered when he read that epitaph, it
expressed so emphatically the reverential nature of the love which Lady
Janet had inspired--the genial influences which the holiness of a