The sequel can be foreseen. Mark's bankrupt heart was now solvent. He fell in love with Constance Hull, and proposed to her. She did not reject him absolutely, but made her acceptance conditional on not being required to leave her grandfather. Here was a quandary. Mark was contented with his profession. He could not bear the thought of resuming his old calling, which he would have to do, in case he returned to live in Belton. One thing was clear: he should have to throw up his commission and leave the army. The alternative was a hard one. Resign his claim to Miss Hull, he could and would not. In this dilemma, and while seeking some way out of it, an event occurred which settled the matter in an unexpected way. Death, the great intermeddler, stepped in and removed the old Judge, and after a proper period had elapsed, Constance Hull consigned her fortunes to the care of Mark Gildersleeve. The latter is now stationed at one of the frontier forts, and he and his wife are as happy as mutual affection and esteem can make them. Our ecclesiastical friend, the Reverend Spencer Abbott, has also taken unto himself a wife, and is married to Miss Angela Gogglemush, second daughter of the distinguished inventor of the Terpsichorean Ointment. The wedding was the most brilliant affair of the kind that ever took place in Belton, to quote the language of the "Sentinel," and was "got up in a style of Oriental magnificence--the bishop officiated--six bridesmaids--ushers--two thousand invitations--presents innumerable--sixty-two silver tea sets--ten gross butter-knives--one hundred and forty-three salt-cellars--sixty-two bronze card-receivers--diamonds, rubies, pearls, beryls," etc., etc. Angela is an excellent spouse, and her husband is still in charge of St. Jude's. Not long since, learning that Dr. Wattletop was seriously ill, he went to see him. He found the old physician on his death-bed, and remained with him until the last moment. The rector hinted at repentance and "making his peace with God," but the moribund was apparently as firm in his stoical opinions as ever. To the rector's kind entreaties he shook his head, and replied feebly, "Useless ... useless.... Nothing I say now can cancel one wrong I have committed or any evil done.... The future cannot be at the mercy of chance or opportunity.... Justice, impartial and inexorable, of the Creator. How weary ... weary ... weary.... Death comes so slowly ..." And the old philosopher felt his own pulse as the current of life was ebbing fast, until like one going to sleep he passed away. * * * * *