In the afternoon Mr. Riches returned to his quarters at Hampstead, to spend his last night at the metropolis. Long was the session, which he held there with the old clerk. A hint had made Cornelius and his sister acquainted with the scene of the marriage, and they had been unobserved, but not unobservant, spectators of the ceremony. And for many a day after Polydore's departure, the two old bachelors maintained a constant correspondence, in which they discussed the merits of old essayists, and criticised the beauties of old plays. Sister Clotilda and her brother never seemed to grow older than they were when Randolph and Helen dwelt beneath their roof. Sometimes their old lodger invited them through the chaplain to make a tour to Trevethlan Castle, promising to shew them all the wonders of the land. But Cornelius, though he did not appear to age, grew more and more fond of the flags of the metropolis, and could not be prevailed upon to attempt so long an excursion. "I am no traveller," he once wrote to Mr. Riches. "Twenty or twenty-five miles of nice quiet road, with green hedges and comfortable inns, a cow or two here and there, and now and then a pig, that is all the country I like. London is my pleasure. I affect a bit of enthusiasm to strangers about this village of Hampstead, but I should like it better without the hill." And so peace and farewell to the peachery. The arrival of Helen and the chaplain occasioned much rejoicing in the hamlet of Trevethlan, but the main demonstration was of course reserved for the coming of the young squire and his bride. And a proud day it was for old Jeffrey, when their carriage dashed over the green amidst the cheers of the villagers, and he finally hoisted the family flag to the top of its staff. There was firing and feasting, and dancing, in the hamlet and the castle; the great hall was thrown open to all comers, and the rivalry between Trevethlan and Pendarrel was drowned in flowing bowls, and forgotten in the unions of the mazy measure. And night had long hung her pall over the sea, before silence reigned in the towers on the cliff. And here, perhaps, we might drop the curtain. But the reader will not be displeased at a rapid glance over some of the years which have elapsed since that happy day. The tranquillity which succeeded to the first exuberance of joyousness, was not unchequered with feelings of a more pensive cast.