It was near morning; but before that new time, full of hope, and joy, and promise, dawned upon her life, there came a period of blessed unconsciousness, during which Heather Dudley lay ignorant of all passing events. How Arthur came back from the valley of the shadow—how the management of their affairs was taken by stronger and abler hands than any which had hitherto touched them—how everything was made right with Mr. Lukin, and gossip silenced, and ill-nature refuted, she did not know until the long fever was over—until, seated again beside one of the windows of that pleasant drawing-room at Berrie Down, she could have fancied the events I have tried in this story to chronicle were all parts and portions of some unpleasant dream—of some weary attack of delirium. For they were once more in the old house which Mr. Croft had purchased when it was for sale, and the management of which he had offered through his agent first to Arthur, and then to Alick. “And, had I known who my real master was,” said that young gentleman, “I never would have accepted the post.” “Are you sorry you were ignorant?” asked Mr. Croft, with a smile, glancing towards Heather. “No—oh, no!” was the quick reply; for every one now knew, that when Mr. Croft appeared so opportunely in Silk Street, he was coming to tell Mrs. Dudley of his wife’s death—coming to say, that if Bessie would only accept him, he would make reparation—he would prove his repentance. There was not a relation he had in the world who opposed his decision—not one who, hearing the full details of that sad story, urged a word against the girl whom he desired, after a due interval, to make his wife. All the reluctance was with Bessie—all the difficulty he experienced lay in her disinclination to speak to him, or listen to his suit. “Her child,” she said to Heather, “would be looked down on.” Her child who, now chattering his first intelligible sentences, ran through the gardens at Berrie Down, making that sound of young life about the place which is always so pleasant to hear. But there was hope for the suitor, nevertheless. In due time, Heather promised to take up his cause. “I will talk to her when I get strong,” she said to Mr. Croft; and with that assurance he rested satisfied. As for Mrs. Poole Seymour, she was quite enthusiastic about the affair. “My dear,” she declared, “you must not be cruel. You ought to be the first to forgive him, since it was your pretty face led him so far astray; and as for your child—the estate is not entailed—what matter? besides, Mr. Stewart is _so_ rich, and has taken to you so immensely!” Which was true. Mr. Stewart was delighted with Bessie, and perhaps even more delighted with her child—a fine, sturdy young fellow, who, riding on Nep, encountered Mr. Stewart one day in Berrie Down. “What is your name, my little man?” asked the bachelor, stopping him and his nurse, Priscilla. “Mamma says, I’m a young Turk,” was the answer. “What’s yours?”