Three years have passed, and we will take just one peep at the domestic life at Wycliffe before we, too, part with them for all time. The great mansion, the pride of all the country around, with its wide wings on either side, stands on a slight eminence, and is grand and imposing in appearance. It was built in the Tudor style of architecture, with massive carvings and ornamentations, and was a home of which any man, however great, might have been proud. An extensive lawn spread out in front, and was decorated here and there with patches and borders of landscape gardening, beautiful shrubbery, fountains, and statuary, while beyond and to the right of this was the park, with its noble trees, its deer and game. Magnificent beeches, elms, and maples spread their lofty, protecting arms above and around the mansion, lending a delightful shade, and making a pleasing contrast with the brown-stone of the dwelling. Beneath one of these trees there might have been seen, on a certain summer’s day, an exceedingly attractive group, and, to all appearances, a very happy one also. Upon a graceful rustic seat there are sitting two beautiful women. Editha, fair and lovely as of old, no cloud to dim the blue of her sunny eyes, no care or trouble having left a line on her white brow. She is a trifle more matronly in her appearance, has a bit more of dignity, perhaps, but is otherwise unchanged. Her companion is a lady of perhaps thirty-two or three years, whose face impresses one at once with its expression of sweetness and gentleness. It is a face that we have seen before, and that once seen could never be forgotten. The lady is none other than the one we have known as Miss Isabelle Grafton, the daughter of Bishop Grafton, that good old man who married Earle’s mother. Standing behind her, his eyes resting with peculiar fondness upon her face, is a noble-appearing man. It is Paul Tressalia, her husband of a few months. Madam’s prophecy had come true, and he had at last found the “woman whom he should marry,” and they are as quietly, calmly happy as they could ever hope to be in this world, neither feeling, perhaps, the fervor of a first passion, but loving earnestly and with an enduring affection that would grow riper with every year. It was this gentle woman’s face that had come, unbidden, to Paul Tressalia’s mind on that day when madam had told him that he would yet find one good and true who would fill the wants of his nature better than Editha could ever do. A year after his return to England they had met again; each had attracted the other, and out of it had grown the union, which bade fair to be a most happy one.