“Why, how do you do, Oriole? Do you recollect me, child? Yes? I am very glad to see you here! How is your mistress? Is she in?” It is a rich, full-toned voice that speaks—a cordial, familiar, life-giving voice—a voice that has power to thrill every nerve in her frame—in a word, it is Mark Sutherland’s voice! and he is in the little hall, and in another moment he will be in the room. Oh! Heaven! her face is pale, and bathed with tears—he must not see her thus! In a moment the blinds are drawn down, the curtains dropped, and the room obscured, and her chair is wheeled around with its back to the windows, so as to throw her face into deep shadow. So she will await him. But Oriole enters alone, with a card. “It is Mr. Sutherland, madame, and if you are disengaged he will be glad to see you.” She bows in assent—she can do no more; and Oriole goes out, returns, and ushers in Mr. Sutherland. “Mrs. Ashley”—— She rises, and extends her hand. “Mrs. Ashley, I am very happy to see you again.” She essays to speak, but fails, and her self-possession utterly deserts her. The hand he has taken is cold as ice—he carries it to his lips. “My dearest India, I am so happy to find you again, after all these years.” “All these years!”—she repeats his words, mechanically, as she sinks back in her chair. He takes the nearest seat, and resumes—“I have sought you far and wide, I have sought you for so long, I have done all but advertise you!” He added, smiling—“Why have you hidden yourself so long from all your friends?” “The old ‘sinful pride’ perhaps, Mark,” she answered, half smiling in her turn. “‘Pride,’ dear India? Ah! I understand you. Yet that same pride, in all its phases, has caused much vexation to those who love you, dear India.” “Do I not know it? And do I not regret it?” “And to none has it caused more trouble than to _myself_.”—But the conversation is growing personal, and closing in. You and I, reader, are _de trop_—and will withdraw from the scene and wait. The result was this—that Mr. Sutherland did not leave New York as soon as he had expected, by many weeks. And one Sunday, before morning service, there was a quiet marriage ceremony performed before the altar of Grace Church. And the next morning, in the list of passengers that sailed in the Baltic, for Liverpool, were the names of “Mr. and Mrs. Mark Sutherland, and two servants”—the latter being Oriole, who could not live without her mistress, and Mr. Sutherland’s valet, who was no other than our old friend Billy Button, who had been well drilled for some years past, and now, in a speckless suit of black, and a spotless white neckcloth, presented one of the most respectable specimens of a gentleman’s gentleman.