The handsome stranger walked with a very unsteady step into the bar, and took up an old paper, which one might have supposed that he was reading, if he did not notice that he was holding it upside down. He appeared to be dreadfully agitated, but at length he started up and asked if the stage had gone. The barkeeper told him that it had driven round to the stable to change horses, and would be back in an instant. The stage soon came with a new driver and fresh horses, and into it the handsome man tumbled with bag and baggage as before. As he wheeled off, the old driver said to the barkeeper, “That ’ere is a quare chap. He rode on the top with me a while to-day, and told me he was gwine to spend the winter here, and p’raps to live. Did he let you into his name and business?” “No, but that infernal big trunk of his’n was marked in white paint, ‘E. Neville.’” Meantime the sale went on. The property realized more than enough to pay all that Mr. Elliot was bound for, and yet was struck off for one third its value. I settled with the sheriff, and then went to Mr. Elliot, and offered to put the property again in his hands, and give him his own time to pay for it. He accepted my offer with tears in his eyes, and although I felt mean for taking, even for a moment, the credit which belonged of right to Tom, yet I stood it like a man. All would have gone on very well, but the wife of the man from whom Tom borrowed the money for the purchase was a gossip, and could not keep to herself any thing she knew; and very soon the true state of the case was made known to the Elliots. For a while Tom was very anxious about the result, but he came to me one morning with this note in his hands: “Dear Sir,—I have behaved very foolishly. If you can add charity to generosity, come and see us, and you will find me very truly your friend, Emile Neufchatel Elliot.” It did not take Tom long to go. It did not take me long to explain to Parson Harris that his services would be wanted in the chancel one of those mornings. The service itself was short, though from my boyhood up, I never knew Mr. Harris to offend against a rubric. And it was a short ride from the church to the plantation. Mr. Harris said a short grace, and the dinner was delightfully long. At the end of it, I noticed Mrs. Elliot playing with one of the silver spoons, and then suddenly dropping it when she perceived that I was observing her. This motion drew general attention to her, but though embarrassed for a moment, she recovered herself, and said with a pleasant smile, “I must confess, my dear Jane, that I am entirely happy in retracting a speech which I made to you some years ago. You shall have all the new-fashioned silver in the house, and I am sure it will be doubly valuable in your eyes, because the name you have adopted is already stamped upon it.” Thus happily endeth the true history of the Silver Spoons.