The storm had died away, and the moonbeams stealing through the window
told that morning was breaking, but neither Guy nor Maddy heeded the
lapse of time. Theirs was a sad kind of happiness as they talked
together, and could Lucy have listened to them she would have felt
satisfied that she was not forgotten. One long, bright curl, cut from
her head by his own hand, was all there was left of her to Guy, save
the hallowed memories of her purity and goodness--memories which would
yet mold the proud, impulsive Guy into the earnest, consistent
Christian which Lucy in her life had desired that he should be, and
which Maddy rejoiced to see him.