It is the April of the following year. Mr. Sivewright’s collection has been sold in February, and the sale, happening in a halcyon period for the disposal of bric-à-brac, has justified the collector’s proudest hopes. He has divided the proceeds into two equal portions, one of which he has bestowed upon Lucius as Lucille’s dower; and with a part of this money Lucius has bought a modest practice, with the potentiality of unlimited improvement, in a narrow street, situated in that remote, but not unaristocratic region, beyond Manchester-square. It is late in April, Lent is just over; there are wallflowers for sale on the greengrocers’ stalls, a perfume of spring in the atmosphere, even at the eastern end of London. The spar-forests yonder in the docks rise gaily against a warm blue sky, whence the smoke clouds have been swept by the brisk westerly breeze. Bells are ringing gaily from the crocketed finial of the little Gothic church whose services Lucius Davoren has been wont faithfully to attend on his lonely bachelor Sundays; and Lucius, nevermore a bachelor, leads forth his fair young bride from the same Gothic temple. Not alone doth he issue forth as bridegroom, for behind him follow Geoffrey and Janet, who have also made glad surrender of their individual liberty before the altar in the rose-coloured light of yonder Munich window, a rose glow which these happy people accept as typical of the atmosphere of all their lives to come. Trouble can scarcely approach those whose love and faith are founded on so firm a rock. Lucius has kept his promise, and waited for the same April sunlight to shine upon Geoffrey’s nuptials and his own. Miss Glenlyne has been one of the foremost figures in the little wedding group, and Mr. Sivewright has stood up before the altar, strong and solid of aspect as one of the various pillars of the church, to bestow his adopted granddaughter upon the man of her choice. Lucille has but one bridesmaid, in the person of Flossie, who looks like a small Titania, in her airy dress and wreath of spring blossoms. Never was there a smaller wedding party at a double marriage, never a simpler wedding. They go straight from the church to the old house in the Shadrack-road, which no persuasion can induce Mr. Sivewright to abandon. Here, in the old panelled parlour, endeared to Lucius by the memory of many a happy hour with his betrothed, they find a modest banquet awaiting them, and a serious individual of the waiter-tribe, in respectable black, who has been sent from Birch’s with the banquet. Moselle corks fly merrily. Mr. Sivewright does the honours of the feast as gracefully as if he had been entertaining his friends habitually for the last twenty years. Lucille and Lucius go round the old house for a kind of farewell, but carefully avoid that one locked chamber which was the scene of Ferdinand Sivewright’s dreadful fate, and which has never been occupied since that night.