To arrange Mr. Budlong’s affairs at Newport, and his own, Mr. Waddy passed that way on his eastward journey. He arrived, as is usual, in the fresh morning. It was still early autumn, but Vanity Fair had struck its booths, taken down its _étalage_, and gone into winter quarters. The season had ended sadly; everyone was saddened for Diana. Her inspiring beauty had been the brilliant presence that made this summer brighter than any remembered summer. There was many a dry old beau who, stimulated by the thought of her into a brief belief that he could be young, ardent, frank, and brave again, found himself looking with moistened eyes at the places she would illumine no more and feeling that a glory and a hope had passed away. It would have all seemed rather dreary to Mr. Waddy, walking there alone, but no desolate spot of desert earth is dreary to a man who feels the warmth of his own happiness making gardens sun-shiny, roseate, wherever he treads. Not drearily, then, but full of sad sympathy, Mr. Waddy went toward the house of his gentle kinsman and friend; thinking most of Clara, now so widowed by the death of one dearer than a sister. “I will ask her who is this Miss Sullivan, whom Granby spoke of as their governess,” he said, because his heart was full of gratitude. “Perhaps it may prove that she and my kind friend are one, and I can discover her residence and thank her suitably.” He avoided the main entrance to his kinsman’s grounds, and took a narrow, winding path, hedged with rich, close growth of arbor vitæ. At last he reached the house, and passed into the library to wait. As he entered, a graceful figure in black disappeared through another door. She had evidently been sitting solitary reading, for the leaves of a little book on the table were still fluttering. It had a look somehow familiar. Mr. Waddy stepped toward the table and picked it up. It was his own Testament, gift of childish friendship confirmed by after love, companion of all his better moments, and talisman of safety to his wide-wandering, bewildered life. He raised the time-worn, tear-worn, wave-worn volume to his lips and, sitting down, covered his face with his hands, and yielded for a moment to the need of happy tears. He was aroused by a gentle touch upon his shoulder. He turned. It was his old love; his love unforgotten, through all those years of desolate exile, and now--now, his own love forever. And this was the full Return of Mr. Ira Waddy. THE END * * * * * =“The impression on the reader is so strong that he finds his grip on the book grow strained in spite of himself.”=--_Boston Transcript._ [Illustration] In the Dwellings of the Wilderness By C. BRYSON TAYLOR With two decorations in color. 12mo, $1.25