There is but one person whom we knew in a former page whose fate we have omitted to mention; it may be well to do so here, ere we proceed regularly with our narrative. The high-minded, unselfish, truth-loving Lady Gertrude Lyle had at length, to the great joy of her parents, consented to reward long years of silent devotion, by bestowing her hand on the Marquis of Alford. They were married, and need we say that they were happy? Lady Gertrude's love to her husband increased with each passing year, and he, as time passed on, missed nothing of that bright example of goodness, of piety, and virtue, which had led him to deserve her love. "Emmeline, dearest, put on your prettiest dress to-night, and confine those flowing curls with some tasteful wreath," said Mr. Hamilton, playfully addressing his daughter, about a week after the conversation with her mother. The dressing-bell had sounded, and the various inmates of Oakwood were obeying its summons as he spoke, and Caroline laughingly asked her father how long he had taken such an interest in dress. "Does your ladyship think I never do?" he replied, with mock gravity. "Do you remember when my dear father's own hand wreathed a sprig of scarlet geranium in my hair, some ten years ago, when I was a vain and wilful girl?" replied the young Countess, without heeding his question, and looking up with fond affection in his face. "Ah, papa, no flower, even when formed of gems, ever gave me so much pleasure as that." "Not even when placed within these glossy curls by St. Eval's hand? Are you not jealous, Eugene?" "Not in the least, my dear sir," replied the Earl, laughing. "I have heard of that flower, and the good effects it produced." "You have heard of it, have you? I should have fancied my Caroline had long ere this forgotten it."