She raised her head, and looked at him, and her soul seemed to melt and fly on the wings of a dove to his. Then, with the little shudder of joy’s excess, she put up her hands, slid them, warm and soft, round his neck, and, drawing his face down, let her lips cling to his. “Oh, my love, my love! oh, my darling!” she breathed. “If you knew! If you knew! But you will never know, you never can! Must I tell you?” He answered her with a passionate kiss. Her face burned, and she hid against his breast, drawing the sable lining of his coat round her to hide her as she made her confession: “I thought--I thought to-night that you were never coming, and that I must see you or--die!” * * * * * Nearly a year passed before Lord Clydesfold brought his bride back to the old home, which he had made a House Beautiful for her; and not only the whole population of Hawkwood and Wainford, but, as it seemed, almost the whole of the county, congregated to give them welcome. All that was done that day in the way of triumphal arches, feasting, and speech-making, is it not written in the columns of the _Wainford Gazette_? There is no need to reprint it here. But mention must be made of one feature of the festivities. Massed near the new gates that opened to the new drive were two or three hundred little children, neatly clad, and wearing happy faces, as rosy as the flowers they held in their hands ready to throw in the path of the lovely young countess. They were the children of the Convalescent Home, which had effaced The Maples, and in their midst stood a pale, but serene, and, indeed, happy-faced matron. She was known at the Home and to the world as Sister Elizabeth, and had grown so used to hear herself so called in accents of childish love that she would scarcely have responded if some one had chanced to remember her and called her--Liz Lee. Seth had disappeared in the confusion and excitement of Lord Clydesfold’s release on the day of the trial, and, with true gypsy cunning, had succeeded in concealing his whereabouts from all excepting the man who, with generous hand, sent him periodically enough to live on. Of Ezekiel Mowle there are no tidings; but we have a shrewd suspicion that he is doing well somewhere, and that he will continue to do so, until, having reached the height of the proverbially flourishing bay-tree, he will in a moment of imprudence lose his caution, grow reckless, and be cut down.