Is it all a dream in her eyes, dimmed as they are by happy tears? Can it be true that Jack is all her own--that these good friends and true are really clustering round her, bidding her Godspeed and yet hindering her going as if they were loth to let her go? Perhaps she does not realize it all until they part and let her pass to where the old bent figure of Stephen's mother stands waiting to see the last of the girl whom she has loved and still loves as a daughter. Then as Una takes the trembling figure in her arms and kisses the pale face, she realizes it all, and through sobs she hears the faltering voice murmuring: "God bless you, my darling! God bless and keep you!" And as the broken benediction falls from the trembling lips, the crowd stand back, silent and tearful, and Jack and his bride are allowed to enter the carriage at last. Then breaks forth the cheer from outside the gates, and so, wafted around by blessings and good wishes, they commence their real life. A month later they will come back to find those friends who saw them depart, eager to welcome them back. "No coming home to a silent house, my wild bird!" says Jack. "We'll have them all here, everyone of them. I'd have all the world to see my darling, if I could." "My darling! my darling! they might take all the rest if they would leave me you." And Stephen? There is no difficulty in finding Stephen--he is too public a man. You can see and hear him any evening during the month of charitable meetings, if you will but go to the proper places. There amongst philosophers and social reformers, you will see a tall, thin gentleman, with a white face and spotless linen, who, when he comes forward to make his speech, is received with deafening cheers, and who never fails to draw tears from the audience by his pathos and tender-souled eloquence; and when the meeting is over, if you wait beside the private entrance to the hall, you will see another tall, thin, black-coated man, who is like a reflection of the great philanthropist for whom he is waiting, and who, when he emerges, will take him by the arm and lead him to his brougham. For, excepting when he is before the public, Stephen is an injured, broken-down man, only at times able to whine out the story of the wrongs wrought him by the hands of those he most trusted. By his own account he has been robbed of his wife, his estate, his all, and left to the charity of a generous public; and it is only Slummers, besides Stephen himself, who knows that a check arrives punctually each quarter from Jack's lawyer for the support of the man who returns forgiveness and generosity with undying hate and calumny. Yes, Stephen Davenant is regarded as a deeply injured man, and when he appears, with his pale face, and soft, mournful voice, there is always a show of handkerchiefs. But Jack and Una are quite content, and whenever his name is mentioned, it is with more pity than anger. There is no room for aught else in their hearts but love.