Ernest was now getting well into middle life, and Dorothy’s bright hair was slightly lined with gray, as they stood that summer evening by Eva’s grave. Many things had happened to the pair since Mr. Cardus’s tragic death. They had had children—some they had lost, some remained—honest English lads and lasses, with their father’s eyes. They had enjoyed great wealth, and spent it royally, giving with both hands to all who needed. They had drunk deep of the cup of this world’s joys and sorrows. Ernest had gone into Parliament for a couple of years, and made something of a name there. Then, impatient for the active life of other days, he had accepted a high Colonial appointment, for which, notwithstanding his blindness, his wealth and parliamentary reputation eminently fitted him. Now he was just about to leave to fill the governorship of one of the Australian colonies. Long years had passed, many things had happened; and yet as he stood by that heap of turf, which he could not see, it seemed but yesterday when—and he sighed. “Not quite cured yet, Ernest?” said Dorothy, interrogatively. “Yes, Dorothy,” he answered, with a little sigh, “I think I am cured. At any rate,” he went on, as she took his hand to lead him away from the grave, “I have learned to accept the decrees of Providence without murmuring. I have done with dreams, and outlived pessimism. Life would, it is true, have been a different thing for me if poor Eva had not deserted me, for she poisoned its waters at the fount, and so they have always tasted bitter. But happiness is not the end and object of man’s existence; and if I could I do not think I would undo the past. Take me to the old flat tombstone, Dolly, near the door.” She led him to it, and he sat down. “Ah,” he went on, “how beautiful she was! Was there ever woman like her, I wonder? And now her bones lie there; her beauty is all gone; and there lives of her only the unending issues of _what she did._ I have only to think, Dolly, and I can see her as I saw her a score of times passing in and out of this church-door. Yes, I can see her, and the people round her, and the clothes she wore, and the smile in her beautiful dark eyes—for her eyes seemed to smile, you remember, Dolly. How I worshipped her, too, with all my heart and soul and strength, as though she were an angel! And that was my mistake, Dolly. She was only a woman—a weak woman.” “You said just now that you were cured, Ernest; one would hardly think it to hear you talk,” put in Dorothy, smiling. “Yes, Doll, I am cured; you have cured me, my dear wife, for you have crept into my life, and taken possession of it, so that there is little room for anybody else; and now, Dorothy, I love you with all my heart.”