A Wonderful Woman.

Te Aroha News, Volume VIII, Issue 488, 12 July 1890, Page 3

A Wonderful Woman.

By MAY AGNES FLEMING, Author of “Guy Earlescourt’s Wife," “A Terrible Secret," “ Lost for a Woman,” •‘A Mad Marriage,” etc . CHAPTER XXIX. HOW IT ENDED. It was a brilliant April day.That nevor-to-be-forgotten August, and all the bright summer, the yellow autumn, the chill grey winter months had worn away. March had howled and blustered through the leafless trees of Scarswood Park, and now April, soft and sunny, smiling and showering, was here, clothing all tho land in living green. The brignt afternoon was at its brightest as Lady Cecil Clive took her seat in a rustic chair under the King’s Oak, her sketch book in her lap; the flickering lines of yellow light slanting on her uncovered head. Pearl and Pansy played at hide-and-seek along the terraces and through the trees. Lady Dangerfield, in the drawing-room, played waltzes on the piano, and Lady Cecil let book and pencils fall listlessly and sat ‘ lost in memory’s mazes.’ Eight months had passed and gone since that August day when Sir Arthur Tregenna hadstood byhevside atyondcrsnnny boudoir window and asked her to be his wife ; eight months since, in the hotel parlour, ho had pleaded with her to marry him—pleaded while all his heart was another’s—pleaded, and in vain.

They had met'but- once since then, and the’n how differently. He had gone abroad, and resumed his wandering life. Before going, however, he had called upon Katherine— a most unsatisfactory and embarrassing meeting for both. Why ho had gone he could hardly have told ; some 4 spirit in his feet ’ —some spirit in his heart. He went because ho could not leave "England lor years without seeing her. Thero was very little to say on either side —a mutual restraint held them—the interview would be silent and short. He looked into the pale, grave, thoughtful face, into tho sad, large eyes, and knew, more strongly than bo had ever known it before, that this woman of all the women on earth, was the only one he ever had or ever would love.

And knowing it lie had left her. Was it not wisest ?“ Earl Ruysland’s daughter she might be, injured beyond all reparation she might bo, but also, she had been an adventuress none tho less. He was very proud proud of his old lineage, his spotless name, his unstained descent. No whisper had ever been breathed against the women of his race ; should he be the first to blot their escuctheon ? She had suffered greatly, but also sha had sinned. She had plotted and worked for revenge. Sho had been an actress. She had been at the very altar, the bride of a worthless wretch. She had stooped to play upon that superstitious Sir Peter’s fears—to play the ghost. She had acted a lie, acted a doubly deceitful part, gone in male attire to the masquerade, personated Frankland, and separated man and wife, and last, and worst of all in this dark and deadly summing up of crime, she had palmed herself off .again, of course in male attire, as Gaston Dantroe, and with the coolness and skill of a Horn burg gambler, won from the baronet his money.

All this Bhe had done. He might be in love, but ho \va3 not blind—he summed up the evidence mercilessly against her. True, ab bhe eleventh hour she had striven to repair and atone ; but can any reparation or atonement ever wash out guilt on earth? She had been great even in her wrong-doing ; but such a woman as this was no wife for him. And he turned his back resolutely upon England and her, and went wandering over the world, striving to forget.

But forgetfulness would not come. ‘ How is it under our control to love or not to love?’ He could not banish her memory, or the love with which she had inspired him, from his heart. The pale, wistful face, the dark, sad eyes followed him, haunted him, wherever he went. And just three months after his departure, there came to Miss Dangerfield a letter, postmarked Constantinople, pouring forth all his doubts, all his scruples, all his love—a full confession. He could nob be happy without her —would she be his wife ? Her answer was a refusal.

‘I would indeed be unworthy the great compliment you pay me,’ she wrote, ‘ if I accepted your generous offer. My life has gone wrong from first to last; all the years that are to come will be too few for atonement. Sir Arthur Tregenna’s wife must be above reproach. No one in the future shall lift the linger of scorn, and say the last of a noble line disgraced it by marrying me. It is utterly impossible, Sir Arthur, that I can be your wife. But the knowledge that-I once won a heart so true, so noble, wiU brighten all my life.’ He had written to her again, and she had answered, gently, but with unflinching resolution. Again he wrote, again she replied, and tho correspondence went on between them. During that winter long letters from every city in Europe came to the little cottage of Ilenry Otis. And so—they hardly knew how-—they grew to understand one another as they might never have done else. She learned, as the months went by, to look for tho coming of those pleasant, white-winged messengers as gleams of sunshine in her sober, drabcoloured life. As for him—how eagerly Sir Arthur Tregcnna received and welcomed the replies, only Sir Arthur Tregenna knew. , For the rest, she had already atoned in great measure for the evil of the past. Her letter to Sir Peter, her humility, her forgiveness, had somehow made its way even tp his ehrivelled, icy heart. The unutterable relief of knowing she was not dead, that the ghost was no ghost, of receiving intact all his money back, was so great, that he was ready to promise anything, do anything. She asked but one boon ; that he would forgive and take back his wife. The blame of the masked ball was all hers —hers alone. Lady Dangerfield would never have gone but for her urging. He road it, his dried -up little heart softening wonderfully for the time. He finished it, he ordered his charger, he rode forth to Scarswood and his wife. What that conjugal meeting was like the world is ndt destined to know. Sir Peter was relenting but dignified, very dignified, and my lady hysterical, frightened, ready to eat humble pie to any extent, resigned the reins of power at once and for ever. The calumet of peace was smoked—a treaty of peace issued on sundry conditions. One was that the town house was to be leased ; no more London seasons, no more a box at both houses ; Scarswood and her husband were to be brightened by her presence the year round. And Jasper Frankland was never to come down again. Indeed the less company the Park saw, Sir Peter signified, the better its sovereign lord and master would like it.

Lord Ruysland had gone abroad. There was always a little money to be picked up

at Baden-Baden and Homburg ; living was cheap. To Baden and Homburg the noblo earl went, and entered the lists of 4 birds of prej'.’ For Cecil, her homo was still at Scarswood—in the capacity of governess, vice Miss Herncastle, resigned. 4 You will want a governess for Pearl and Pansy, you say, Ginevra,’ sho said quietly, the day preceding her father’s departure. 4 Take me.’ 4 Queenio !’ my lady cried. 4 You ?’ The discovery of Queenie’s parentage had mado no change in Ginevra’s affections. If there was one true, pure, womanly feeling in her hard, worldly, selfish heart, it was for La Heine. Blanche.

4 Yes—l,’ Lady Cecil answered, steadily.

4 1 ought to be capable papa, at least, spared no expense on my education. I have been like tho lilies of the field long enough—l have toiled not, neither have I spun. The time has come for both. Papa is penniless, an earl and a pauper; every rood of land he once owned is mortgaged past all redemption. What would yon have me do? Live on your and Sir Peter’s bounty ? I shrink miserably from the thought of goiDg out among strangers, and vet, if you refuse, there is no other alternative. I love the children, they me, and I will conscientiously do my best for them. As I have neither testimonials nor references,’ smiling sadly, 4 1 shall nob demand a very high salary. If you must engage some one, I should prefer- your engaging me. Consult Sir Peter, and let me ktiow--4 But, Queenie—good Heaven ! what will Sir Arthur —’

4 Sir Arthur has nothing whatever to do with me or my actions from henceforth. 1 thought I had explained all that already. My mind i? made up. I shall earn my own living somehow. Oh, Ginevra, when wo think of her, or what she ought to be, of all I have been, forced to usurp, need I blush to work ?’

The result was, that Lady Cecil Clive was engaged as governess .to Lady Dangerfield 's childron.

4 Only remember, Queenie, I won’t have the world know it.’ Ginevra said ; 4 it is enough for our gossiping neighbours, that von have taken a whim to instruct Pansy and Pearl. lam unspeakably glad you are going to remain. I should die.’ Drearily this. 4 Yes, Queenie, dio, shut up alone in a dismal country house, year in, year out, with Sir Peter Dangerfield.’ So it was settled, and the new life begun. The months went by, slowly and heavily enough, bub they went, and tho Earl of Ruysland’s daughter was fairly earning her own living. In London, Katherine was busy too. Site had as many music pupils as sho could attend, aiul she worked indefatigably. Her home in the Otis cottage was a peaceful—a pleasant one—no mother could have loved her moro tenderly than Mrs Otis, no brother half so well as Henry Otis. She had her foreign letters boo, growing strangely precious, and as winter warmed into spring there was a sudden and most unlooked-for visit from their writer.

4 ln the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love,’ Well not quite that, perhaps—Sir Arthur’s thoughts turned lightly upon few things— all that. A groat longing to see her, to hear her, had come upon him far off in Africa. All one white Eastern night ho lay awake watching the yellow stars through the opening of his tent, and thinking of’her. Noxt morning he started for England. All the rest—his journeyings by sea and land —was bub a feverish dream, until the reality came, and ho was standing in the little cottage parlour, holding her hand, and looking into the sweet, gravely thoughtful eyes. Was she growing beautiful,he wondered, was it only the blindness and glamour of love, or—and this was most likely—was it the serene sweetness of an alteiod life shining through the deep grey eyes ? Again he pleaded--again she refused.

‘lt cannot be—.'t cannot! Oh, believe it, and forget me ! It is impossible that I, after all that is past, can ever marry.’ ‘Always the past!’ he cried, bitterly. ‘ Does all your suffering, all your wrongs, all your atonement, go for nothing ? .If 1 can’ forget tho past, Katherine, surely you may.’ ‘ You forget it now. In the years to come you may bo forced to remember it; and, as your wife, I don’t think I could bear that.’

‘Am I a scoundrel in your eyes ?’ he cried out, a passion in his voice very new there, * that, having won you for my wife, I should ever give vou cause to repent it?’

‘ I did not mean that. 1 think nothing of you but what is generous and noble, if you repented I know well I should r.e‘-er see it, if you could help it. But I think I should see it for all that. She who was once Helen Herncastle, can never be Lady Tregenna.’ He turned away from her—such keen disappointment r such bitter pain,written in his face, that her heart relented. She liked him so much—so much that she began to wonder if the liking were not loving. It was hardly possible such noble, disinterested, enduring love as his should not beget love. * Oh, forgive me,’ she penitently cried, ‘if I have wounded you ! Indeed, I did not mean it f I do like you ; but it is for your good, your happiness I speak. Cannot you see that ?’

‘I can see nothing bub that without you my life will all go wrong—will be utterly miserable. Katherine, I lovo you ! What more can I say ? Love me in return, and bo my wife !’

He held out his arms. For a moment she stood irresolute—longing, yet dreading to go for his sake. ‘ Come to me!’ he pleaded—‘my bride! my Avife ! Forget the past has e\ r er been —it shall never come between us ! Come, and make the happiness of my life !’ And then he enfolded her, and her head fell on his shoulder, Katherine knew that poace had found her out at last. She told him all her story—every detail of her life, painting what was dark in its darkest colours. He should never marry her—not knowing the worst. Among the rest, of that strange fancy for Redmond O’Donnell.

‘I don’t pretend to understand it,’ she said. ‘ It may ha\ r o been part of the fatality that has been at tvork from the first to care for the two men, of all men, who could never care for me— Gaston Dantree and Redmond O’Donnell. The first Avas but a foolish girl’s foolish admiration for a handsome face, the last —ah ! Avell, it might have ripened into love, but it is gone now—gone for ever. I Avould never give you or any man on earth my hand, if my heart might nob go with it. You do me great honour, Sir Arthur Tregenua, in asking me to.be your Avife; and as you trust me, so you Avill find mo —your Wing and faithful Avife to the end.’ Three weeks latter, in tho loA'ely April Aveathor, Sir Arthur Tregenna, Barb., and Miss Katherine Dangerfield Avere quietly, married in London married from Henry Otis’ cottage, in a quiet church in the neighbourhood. There was but one bridesmaid—Lady Cecil Clive. And in her white robes, her gossamer A’eil, her bridal blossoms, the sAveefc, tender tremulous happiness of her face, Katherine was lo\’ely. Lord Ruysland gave away the bride. He had come expressly from Baden-Baden for

j the purpose. And the great Cornish baro- , net was his son-in-law at last. | Thero was a breakfast at the cottage, and | Mrs Otis cried a great deal. If Henry Otis felt, in his heart of hearts, like keeping her ' company, no one there discovered it. He boro it with philosophy, but then ho had vowed to get the bettor of his ill-starred passion, and he was a man, whether to himself or others, to keep his word. Immediately after the ceremony, tho ‘happy pair’ (words of bitter satire often —words true in the highest sense here), started for a prolonged Continental tour. Lord Ruysland went back to Germany. Lady Cecil returned to Scarswood, to my lady’s dreary wailings, to Sir Peter’s prosy companionship, to the weary toil of training the obstreperous twins in tho rudiments of English, French, music, and drawing. Toil, dreary beyond all telling, but bravely, thoroughly, and cheerfully done. If Redmond O’Donnell's bronzed, sombre face, and stern blue eyes came back to her from over the sea a hundred times a day, his name never once passed her lips. Sho sits, this April afternoon, under the hoary oak, her hands playing listlessly with her pencils, the tender green of earth, the tender blue of sky, tiio sunlit loveliness of both unseen. She sits thinking—she is far away in the past—so far that she wakes at last with a start. Thinking is profitless work, and presently, with a long-, tired sigh, she takes up her pencils and Bristol board and begins to work. But thought follows her even here—the landscape sho would,sketch grows blurred before hereyes, and it is a face she draws —a face, every expression, every outline of which is graven on her heart.

She hoars a footsfop approaching up tho avenue, but no one in whom she is the least interested ever comes to Scarswood, so she does nob look up. She goes on with her work, so absorbed that sho forgets all about the intruder. He sees her afar off, and pauses a moment to look at her. Tho afternoon sunshine gilds the sweet, fair, drooping face, and kindles into a halo tho bronze hair. Slowly ho draws nearer, stepping on the grass that ho may not disturb hor. lie comes close—so close that ho can look over her shoulder and see what it is that hold j her so absorbed. Then ho speaks, close beside her, and very coolly : 4 If you intend that for a fancy face, Lady Cecil, I have nothing to say. If for a portrait, then I must tell you it is most egregious!;/ flattered.’

She starts up with a cry ; for it is a like' ness of Redmond O'Donnell she is drawing and it, is Redmond O’Donnell himself who stands smiling before her. 4 Good day to you, Lady Cecil ’ —ho lifts his hat as though they had parted yesterday, and holds out his hand — 4 l am afraid I have startled you ; but not so greatly, I hope, that you cannot shako hands. Ah ! thanks !’ As scarcely knowing what sho does sho lays four cold fingers in his. 4 1 thought at first you meant to refuse. And how have you been sinco I saw you last ?’ Ho takes a seat in the rustic chair, which accommodates three, and she sinks down, scarcely knowing whether she is asleep or awake, beside him, Hor heart is throbbing so fast that for a moment she turns giddy and faint. She has nob spoken a word she does nob try to speak now. 4 Well,’ O’Donnell says, in the same cool tone, 4 you don’t look over-glad to see me, I must say. This is what comes of giving one's friends a pleasant surprise. And I flattered myself you had sufficient friendly interest in me, or if noc, common politeness enough at least, to say you were glad to see me back.' 4 1 am glad.’ Her voice is nob steady—she quivers as she sits. ‘Bub —it was so sudden. I am nervous, I suppose, and little tilings startle me.’ Sho lays hor hand on hor heart to still its tumultuous beatings, and looks at him for the first time. 4 You are tho last person I expected to see. I thought you were at Algiers.’ ‘The last person wo expect bo see ia very often the first person we do see,’ O’Donnell answered, still eminently self-possessed. 4 1 haven't been at Algiers, and I’m not going. I shall turn my sword into a scythe, my rifle into a ploughshare, and go in for peace, respectability, and pastoral life. I have been out in New Orleans.’ 4 In New Orleans ?’

‘ Yes. I received a telegram from my grandfather after leaving here, telling me his wife and son were dead, and requesting me bo bring Rose back. Wo went. We have been there ever since.’

She Avas beginning bo recover now. .She drew a little further from him, and began bracing figures in the grass with her white parasol.

‘ Your sister is Avell, I hope T ‘ My sister is quite Avell, thank you.’ ‘ She remains in New Orleans Avibh your grandfather.’ ‘She is in London, and my grandfather is dead.’

‘lndeed.’ She is strangely ab a loss Avhab to say—something A'ery unusual Avith Lord Ruysland’s high-bred daughter. ‘I hope then wo will seo Miss O’Donnell down at Scarswood shortly.’ ‘ Well, yes. I suppose Rose will come. She is very anxious bo see you. In fact, sho wanted to accompany me on this occasion, but I objected.’

* Objected ! Why ?’ ‘ I preferred to come alone. Other people may bo very anxious to see you as well as Rose—may they nob? And you know I never like third persons during my interviews with you.’ She still looks down at the emerald turf, still traces figures Avith her parasol. Ho looks at her, and there is silence.

‘ You have heard of Sir Arthur Tregenna’s marriage ?’ she says at length ivibh a soft; effort. Women are always the first to break these embarrassing pauses. ‘No doubt he sent you Avord ?’ ‘He sent me no Avord— lioav could ho? He thought Avith you I Avas in Algeria. Still I heard of it—from whom do you think ? Our mutual friend, Charlie Dslamei'e.’ ‘Ah ! Charlie,’ Avith a smile ; ‘he knew your address then ■?’ ‘Yes—after six months of Louisiana, I grow sick for news of England and my friends. I did not care to Avribe to any of those friends direct for sundry reasons, so I sent a line to Charlie. I gob all the news I wished immediately Sir Arthur’s marriage among bhe rest. He’s a fine fellow, and in spite of that Miss Herncastle episode, his wife suits him. She suits him—all is said in that, they will be happy.’ * I hope so,’ she ansAvered softly. ‘ Your father is in Germany, Lady Cecil ?’ ‘ He is always in Germany of late—he seems to make it his home. Poor papa! A sigh.

‘ And you,’ the blue eyes that can be so keen, so hard, so steely, so tender, soternately, arc Avatching her with a light she feels, but cannot meet. ‘And you still reside Avith your cousin and Sir Peter, l am glad, by tho bye, that they are reconciled. Doesn’t tho life strike you as rather a dull one?’

‘ Not particularly. I hope I have com-mon-sense enough to know life cannot be all sunshine and roses for any of us. ScarsAvood is ahvays a pleasant place, and I am too busy to find much time for idle repinihgs. Work is a boon—l have found that out, I am the children’s governess, noAv, you knoAV. So,’Avith an effort to. change the subject, ‘ you have given up all thoughts

of Algiers. Lanby Lafferfcy will rejoico at that 1 How is Mr Lafferty ?’, 4 Very well, and strongly matrimonially inclined Ho has come down with me, and gone to the Silver Rose to see his old sweetheart. I believe a marriage will follow in the fulness of time. And so you are governess to the twins —terrible drudgery, I should fancy—and practise drawing in the intervals. Let me have another look at my portrait—clever, perhaps, as a work of art, bub, as I said before, absurdly flattered as ajikeness. You do think of me then, sometimes, Queenie ?’ 4 The old pet name ! A faint, rose-pink flush deepened all over the fair, pearly face.

4 1 think of all my friends—what an opinion you must have of my memory—and I have a private gallery of their portraits. Please give me my sketch back—it is easier for you to criticise .than to do bolter.' 4 A rule which applies to all criticism, I fancy. I'll give you the sketch back on one condition—that I may give you myself with it !’ 4 Captain O’Donnell !’ 4 Lady Cecil!’ The faint carnation was vivid scarlet now. She started up, but lie caught both her hands and held her. The bright blue eyes, full of piercing, laughing light, looked up into the startled brown ones. Not much fierceness—not much sternness there now. 4 What do you mean, sir ? Let me go. Here come the children —pray, let me

go !’ , 4 Let them come!’ cries this reckless young Irishman. 4 Let all the world come, )if it likes. 1 shall nob let you go until yon promise. You like mo excessively—oh ! it’s of no use denying it—you know you do, but nob one thousandth part as I like you. And I want you to marry me. It will not he so very much more stupid than vegetating at Scarswood and teaching the nine parts of speech to Pansy and Pearl. Come, Queenie ! We have been in love with each other pretty nearly seven years. They say tho certain cure of love is—matrimony. Let us try it.’ ‘Captain O’Donnell, let me go.’ 4 Not until you promise. Queenie, I mean it. I have come all the way from New Orleans to say this. I love you -be my wife. Since you can bear up under the drudgery of a governess’ life, you can endure to bo tho wife of a poor man. The question is—will you try?’ 4 1 would have tried it six years ago, if Redmond O’Donnell had given mo the chance. I would havo tried it eight months ago, if his pride had not stood between us. I am nob afraid of poverty —perhaps because I was born to it—poverty and servitude were my birthright Does Captain O’Donnell forget princely blood flows in his veins, and in mine—that of a waiting-maid ?’ 4 That is meant as a reproach. Well, my stiff-necked ness in tho past deserves it. But think again, Queenie—how you have been brought up —that luxury has been the very breath you drew—think what marriage with a poor man means. Six stuffy rooms, one grimy maid-of-all-work—one silk dress a year—no carriage—no society—the beautiful and poetical of life a dream of the past. Think!’ ‘ldo think. I think you want to talk me into saying no—you fear I may take you at your word. Very well, sir—l say it. I am deeply honoured by your offer, and beg to decline.’ He drew her to him—close, closer. If those innocent twins are anywhere in the visible horizon now, they stand strong chance of being amazed and scandalised. ‘Queenie, my darling whom I never hoped to hold, to kiss like this—you really love me well enough to endure poverty and obscurity for my sake. You will bo my wife and never repent. , You will go with me and sign everything ?’ ‘Everything! Oh, Redmond! I shall havo you !’ And then—the twins are drawing nearer —their howls can be heard through tho frees, Lady Cecil has some consideration for their artless youth, if La Beau Chasseur lias none, and laughing, and blushing, and looking—oh ! so lovely—withdraws to the extreme end of the rustic seat.

‘No, Captain O’Donnell —not one inch nearer—l insist upon it ! My hearing is excellent—any remarks you may haA'O fo make I can hear ab this distance perfectly well. And the other performance is nob necessary. Poarl and Pansy are coming, and you know the proA r erb —“Little pitchers have great ears.’ ” ‘ Confound Pearl and Pansy ! Queenie, you are sure you will never repent marrying a penniless soldier of fortune !’

‘ I tell you I like poverty. How stupid some people are—forcing one to repeat the same thing over and over. I prefer it decidedly—yes, I do—don’t look like that —I do.’

‘Ah !’ O’Donnell said, gravely, * I am sorry for that. It may be painful for you to hear, Lady Cecil, but—l have had a fortune left me >’

‘Redmond!’ starting up, indignantly, ‘ A fortune !’

* Yes, my love—don’t let your angry passions rise if you can help it—a fortune. M. De Lansac died three months ago, and divided his fortune equally between Rose and me. It was a fortune of two million dollars. A pittance, perhaps, as compared Avith the inheritance of Sir Arthur Tregenna; but to poverty-loving, humble individuals like Lady Cecil Clive and Redmond O’Donnell, sufficient for the bread and cheese of life, a page in buttons, and tiro silk dresses per annum. My love ! my love !’ Where is the distance between them now ? —and tho twins are standing petrified, open-mouthed and eyed, ab what they behold not six yards off. ‘lean give you Avealth as Avell as love. Thank God for the happiness He has given me ab last.

The light fades from the scenes and the faces we know—the hour has come to part. One by one they glide into the shadowy distance and are lost to you and me for ever. Is anyone who has folloAved their fortunes sorry to let them go, I wonder— to say for 6A*er farewell ?

Take one last look, before the curtain falls, to rise no more. Of Sir Peter and Lady Dangerfield, dragging out their married, nob mated lives, in the grandeur and dulness of Scarswood. Of Lanty Lafferty, a married man, Avith ‘ Shusan ’ for his wife, bhe prosperous proprietor of a ‘public.’ Of Henry Otis and his mother, prosperous in London, with Katherine and his hopeless love already a dream of the past. Of Squire Talbot, avlio hopes very soon to bring home a mistress to Morecambe—a mistress as yet known as Rose O’Donnell. Of Captain and Lady Cecil O’Donnell, happy beyond all telling of mine—happy in that perfect wedded love rarely found upon earth. And lastly, of Sir Arthur and Lady Tregenna, wiGh the past bub a dark, 6ad dream they neA’er recall, loving each other, trusting each other, as great hearts and noble souls do trust. They are still abroad, in pleasant Avandering through pleasant lands. One day they will return to Cornwall, and among all the mistresses that in the last four hundred years have ruled it in hoary old Tregenna, none will be more beloved, none more worthy of

all love and honour, than she who was once Helen Herncastle. Her face floats before mens I write the words, noble, tender, womanly, peaceful, and happy, at last. Let the name that began this story end it— Katii brink. THE END.