But other things less pleasant to hear were said about the young fellow with the prematurely grey hair, and the deep lines of sadness in his face. People whispered of “a far-away look in his eyes,” and asked each other what the story was about the man who had been shut up in the east wing at Wyngham House. And they wondered why Mr. Bradfield had left so suddenly for the Continent, and whether it was true that Wyngham House was to be sold. But none of these rumours troubled Chris or her future husband, whose scarcely concealed worship of each other caused many a kindly smile. Chris was quite astonished at the number of friends she had, as the quality and quantity of wedding presents that poured in proved, for everybody’s opinion of the perfect fool had gone up when everybody heard that she was going to marry a man with thirty thousand a year. A much smarter wedding than that of Richard Wryde and Chris Abercarne took place about the same time as theirs. It was that of James Stelfox with a young woman to whom he had long been attached, and who was enabled, through the generosity of Richard, to indulge her heart’s highest ambition, and to be married in a white satin train six yards long, with a veil of corresponding proportions. She had eight bridesmaids, who all wore mauve satin frocks and primrose-coloured hats, and the portrait of the bride and an account of the ceremony appeared in _The Woman’s World of Fashion_. Richard Wryde had set his late servant up as the proprietor of a brand-new hotel, for he persisted in being passionately grateful to the man who had been the means of saving his reason and his life, in spite of Stelfox’s own gentle remonstrances. “If you’ll only believe me, sir,” he would say earnestly, “it was just a toss up whether I took your part or Mr. Bradfield’s. For you were that savage when it first occurred to me to take you in hand, that I didn’t know how it would turn out myself. It was just a lucky ‘spec’ on my part, sir.” But Dick will not believe this, neither will Chris. They are both rather old-fashioned, unworldly creatures, tinged with a simplicity which comes to him through his long confinement, and to her through sympathy with him, and they are a little out of touch with the cynical spirit of the times. They live quietly in the lake district, for Richard Wryde, through his long deafness, cannot hear a louder noise than that of his wife singing or playing the piano, or the splash of the water of the lake, or the cries of their children at play. THE END.