O'Rourke and I have never met again, yet I know that he is thriving though he has grown very old. He dwells always at Savannah, in which rising city he is one of the leading men, and we frequently have correspondence with one another. And very touching and pathetic it seemed to me to be when, on my writing him that, on my next journey home, I intended to visit Ireland on my affairs, he asked me to take with me some roots and cuttings to plant on his dead daughter's grave in Dublin. "She died young," he wrote, "and ere you knew me. Had she lived, may be your lordship would never have known me, for I might have made a better life of it. She was all I had and she was taken from me, and thus I turned reckless and dissolute. Thank God I have seen the evil of my ways at last." Buck still keeps the tavern--with my wife's redemption acquittal, which she gave to him as to all the bond-servants, framed above his chimney-piece--and does well at that occupation and horse-rearing. Lamb is growing very rich, having again quitted the sea and possessing now a plantation and many servants both white and black of his own, and bids fair to found a family. And now for ourselves, to conclude. That I am content with fate you must surely know; who could be aught else who has ever by his side an angel to guide, support, and minister to him? Through all the years since first we met we have lived happily together, loving each other most fondly, sharing each other's joys and troubles--which latter have been but few--and being all in all to ourselves, with only our children to partake of any portion of that love. She is still the same as ever, her sweet, fair face as beautiful, her golden hair with scarce a silver one in it; and, if her years have made her more matronly, they have not robbed her of one charm. Nor is the gentle disposition altered a jot; the trust and belief in others, the unselfish nature, the simplicity and innocence of mind are as they were on that summer day when first I saw her bending over her roses; the day on which God raised up and gave to me the loving companion, friend, and champion of my life and cause. After I have smoked my big pipe out and drunk my nightcap down, and seen that all the servants are a-bed--for we live in her old house in the same way her father and his fathers lived before us--I go to my rest and, as I pass to it, look in to her retiring-room to give her one fond, good-night kiss. Yet, often, ere I pull aside the hangings, I have to pause and stand reverently without. For many a time that room has become a shrine; within that shrine there is a saint. A saint upon her knees, her fair white hands clasped, and in those hands her golden head buried. A saint who prays to her God to bless her husband and her children ever; a saint who thinks of nought for herself but of all for those dear to her, and who, in that self-forgetfulness, finds her deepest happiness.