“But things did not work quite so satisfactorily as had been expected,” he continued. “Bad weather overtook us, after various incidents that I will not inflict upon you, and the day arrived when it was deemed necessary to take to the boats. I had the misfortune to receive a blow on the head that rendered me insensible for a time, and when I came round, I found, to my great grief, that my faithful friend Neptune had been left on board the wreck to perish in miserable solitude. I believe I was very violent in my denunciations of the inhumanity that could thus desert him. But even my partiality was at last convinced that, the boats being overcrowded already, there could have been no room found for a large dog, except at the risk of all our lives. As it was, one boat swamped and drowned its occupants. When, quite recently, I read of your brave action in saving the life of a deserted dog, I felt sure it must be dear old Neptune.” “But you won’t take him away from us?” pleaded Miss Margaret, anxiously. “My dear madam,” quoth Mr. Woodstock, “do you take me for a heathen?” But--will the disclosure be premature?--she was subsequently induced to take him “for better, for worse,” and the pair are as happy and jolly as people who have been half a century in finding their affinity ought to be. Annie had had an interview--nay, two interviews, with her lover, and had the satisfaction of leaving him more hopeful each time. Of course his love and gratitude knew no bounds, but we will spare the reader all his extravagant testimonials to his lady love’s perfections, or his bitter denunciations of those who had brought about the necessity for her exceptional exertions. “I think we may almost venture to pity them now,” said Annie, gently. “They have been very wicked, and all their schemes have to some extent been successful. But their downfall has come at last. They cannot escape conviction, and this knowledge must in itself be a very bitter punishment for them. Your liberation is now only a mere matter of form, and all England is in sympathy with you, even before the trial which is to decide whether you and Hugh Stavanger are to change places or not.” “Our solicitor told me that Mr. Stavanger was supposed to be dying. Have you heard how he is?” “He is recovering; but will never be the same man again. They say that his illness has changed him in many respects, and that he has vowed never to look upon his son again.” “I suppose he is a man of extreme views. Probably his present aversion to his son is more the result of the disgrace which it is no longer in his power to avert, than of a suddenly aroused conviction that his son has sinned against law and morality, or that, by swearing against me, he has helped to make me that son’s scapegoat. I don’t believe in after-discovery repentances. All the same, I believe he is to be pitied, and I shall bear no animosity.”