Jenner, Thompson, Robert Barnes--the whole party of the grandees of the profession would have been utterly scandalised had they been witnesses of Doctor Scales's treatment of his patient, though they must have afterwards confessed that it was almost miraculous in its effects. For he bent down, raised her from her knees, said the one word, "Anna!" and held her tightly to his breast. In fact so satisfactory was the treatment, that Lady Martlett's passionate sobs grew softer, till they almost ceased, and then she slowly raised her face to look into his eyes, saying softly: "There, I am humble now. Are you content?" "Content?" he exclaimed passionately, as he kissed her again and again. "But you are ill," he said excitedly, "and I am forgetting everything. Why did you send for me?" "Is pride always to keep us apart?" she said in a low tender whisper. "Have I not humbled myself enough? Yes; I am ill. I have thought lately that I should die. Will you let me die like this?" "Let you die?" he cried excitedly. "No, no! But think--what will the world say?" "You are my world," she said softly, as she nestled to him. "My pride is all gone now. You may say what you will. It has been a struggle, and you have won." "No," he said softly; "you have won." He never boasted of the cure that he effected here. Wisely so. But certainly Lady Martlett was in an extremely low state--a state that necessitated change--such a complete change as would be given by a long continental tour, with a physician always at her side. The world did talk, and said that Lady Martlett had thrown herself away. "The stupids!" exclaimed Aunt Sophia. "Just as if a woman could throw herself away, when it was into the arms of as good a husband as ever breathed." James Scarlett had one or two little relapses into his nervous state, and these were when family troubles had come upon him; but they soon passed away, and the little riverside home blushes more brightly than ever with flowers; the glass-houses are fragrant with ripening fruit; and Aunt Sophia sits and bows her head solemnly over her work beneath some shady tree or another in the hot summer afternoons, the only solitary heart there;--and yet not solitary, for it is filled as freshly as ever with the memory of the dead. Doctor Scales practises still, in his own way; and though he is somewhat at variance with the profession, they all hold him in respect. "As they must," her Ladyship declares, "for there is not a greater man among them all." Saxby bought the pretty villa across the river that you can see from Lady Scarlett's drawing-room. You can shoot an arrow from one garden into the other; but Aunt Sophia, who lives at the Scarletts' now, when she does not live with the Saxbys, always goes round by the bridge--five miles--never once venturing in the boat. Arthur Prayle has been heard of as a Company promoter in Australia, where, as he does not deserve, he is doing well.