So Stephen and I stayed in England, and blessed the memory of him who had been my more than father during his life, and whose kindness had reached us even from beyond the grave. We two are very happy still, and so are Norman and Lucy. I think I may say with confidence that, though we wives are now "into the forties," and much less slender than we were on January 14, 1865, we and our husbands are, in each case, more truly one than we were on the day we became so. Our double wedding led to two more; for Mr. Fisher met his fate in the person of Stephen's sister, Lilian, and the poetical schoolmaster long since gave up his post to become landlord of the Savell Arms, by marrying the landlady. And as Christmas comes round, the old story of Norman's raid on Her Majesty's mail-bag, and the trouble it caused, is still told, with the trite remark, as a closing sentence, "All's well that ends well." As a very last word, I should like to add that, though names, place and circumstances are necessarily altered, the main facts of this little chronicle are absolutely true, and that some one, whose real name I could easily give, was placed in precisely the position above narrated through rashly meddling with the mails. ONLY A SERVANT. CHAPTER I. "DON'T fret so, Miss Joyce. It grieves me to see you, and crying never yet cured heart ache. When things are at the worst they mend; and if so, better days must be at hand for you." The speaker, Sarah Keene, was a homely-looking, rather hard-featured woman of fifty, evidently a servant, for she was busily engaged in ironing some dainty laces and muslin. But while her features were rugged, they were expressive of good sense, and full of affectionate sympathy. The Miss Joyce to whom she spoke had just entered the laundry and thrown herself on an old chair, where she was weeping bitterly. She was a girl nearly twenty-one years of age, above the middle height, slender and graceful, and with one of those faces which attract, even when seen amongst many with far greater pretensions to beauty. Joyce's features were not faultless, or her complexion of alabaster fairness, which last would be very unpleasant, were it possible in a healthy girl. But her large, dark eyes were richly fringed with long lashes, whilst her broad, clear brow was framed by chestnut hair, which lay in soft, wavy masses on her shapely head. The expression of her face, though sad, was singularly sweet and winsome. That Joyce Mirlees was a thorough lady could be told by a glance, though her gown was of coarse, common black stuff, and its scanty crape trimmings were of the poorest description. It was unrelieved even by a simple linen collar. Only a band of the crape edged the throat, and ornaments she had none.