One day when Clancy was able to sit up a little, he took her aside and said, "Mara, you and Mr. Clancy are in one sense comparatively alone in the world, although you have many stanch friends. His health, almost his life, requires the faithful, watchful care which you can best give, and which you are entitled to give. It is his wish and mine, also Cousin Sophy's, that you should be married at once." Again she gave him that luminous look which he so well remembered--an expression so full of homage, affection and sympathy that for the first time tears came into his eyes. "There, my child," he said, "you have repaid me, you have compensated me for everything. There is no need of words"--and he turned hastily away. When the sun was near the horizon Mara was married, not in old St. Michael's, as her mother had been, but in the large tent which of late had sheltered her lover. Her pastor employed the old sacred words to which her mother had responded; and Captain Bodine, with the impress of calm, victorious manhood on his brow, gave her away in the presence of the little group of those who knew her best and loved her most. We may well believe from that time forth her gentleness and happiness would change the meaning of her name. At last all ventured back to their homes. Mr. Houghton was so averse to parting with Ella that he equalled George in his impatience for the marriage. Aun' Sheba, who supervised preparations for the wedding breakfast, declared, "It am jes jolly ter see old Marse Houghton. As fer Missus Bodine, it pears as if she'd go off de han'l." Then father and son took the blue-eyed bride to the North on a visit, in what George characterized as a "sort of triumphal procession." The cabins of Aun' Sheba and Kern Watson were restored to a condition better than their former state, but Uncle Sheba discovered that the good old times of his wife's easy tolerance were gone. She put the case plainly, "Mr. Buggone, de Bible says dat dem dat doesn't wuck mus'n't eat, an' I'se gwine ter stick ter de Bible troo tick an' tin. You'se able to wuck as I be, an' you'se 'lowance now 'pends on you'se wuck." We have already seen that Uncle Sheba was one of those philosophers who always submit to the inevitable. Late one September night the moonbeams shone under the moss-draped branches of a live oak in a cemetery. They brought out in snowy whiteness a small headstone on which were engraved the words, "Yes, Vilet." Sitting by the grave and leaning his head against the stone was Kern Watson, but his calm, strong face was turned heavenward where his little girl waited for him "shuah." THE END