To-day the library at "Hildebrand Hundred," exorcised of its dark spirit, is again our favorite living-room. The teakwood desk and the great swivel-chair were destroyed in the fire, and indeed all the old fittings and hangings have given way to bright and cheerful modern furnishings. As I sit at my desk, writing the final page of these memoirs, the sun lies warm and glowing upon the oaken floor, but there is no hidden menace in its beauty. The scent of roses floats through the open windows, and I can hear the clip of Betty's garden shears as she cuts off the perfumed coupons of her floral treasures; one by one the gorgeous blooms fall into the waiting basket; our dinner table must be resplendent to-night for Chalmers and Hilda, just back from their honeymoon journey, are coming to us for an intimate _partie carrée_. And in the middle distance stands Little Hugh, the breeze roughing up his sleek, black poll, his legs planted confidently wide apart, and his gaze traveling outward upon the fair, broad acres that some day will be all his own; my lawful son and heir, a true Hildebrand of "Hildebrand Hundred." Truly, God is good and life is sweet. THE END