Her _trousseau_ was all that could be desired by a woman's heart. The bridal gifts were numerous and costly. The countess was so much admired, and her sad and romantic story had excited such interest and sympathy that her friends vied with each other in the beauty and richness of their gifts, as if desirous to add in every way to the pleasure of her bridal-hour. Colonel Lockhart scarcely knew what to give his bride, her gifts were so varied and so costly, but he studied out a design of his own, and had the jeweler reproduce it. It was a beautiful locket, containing his own picture. The setting on the carved back was a perfect crimson rose, formed of magnificent rubies. "In memory of the rose whose message failed that night when I went back to America," he said, with a smile, as he placed it in her hand. She sighed and smiled as memory brought back that night with its hopes, and fears, and crowning failure. She remembered the song and the rose, and how both had failed to carry their story to his wounded heart. Then she opened the locket, and forgot all else in the sight of her husband's handsome, happy face beaming out upon her. "Oh, how I thank you, Philip," she cried, rapturously. "It is beautiful." "The picture or the locket?" he asks, laughing, yet inwardly deeply moved. "Both," she answers, pressing the crimson flower of her lips upon the pictured face. "This shall always be my dearest jewel!" * * * * * Countess Vera's bridal tour was to the United States. Her husband was thoroughly patriotic, and desired to rid her mind of the prejudice she had taken against her native land, owing to the trials of her early youth. They traveled leisurely and pleasantly all over their own native country, mixed in society, and viewed everything dispassionately, until the lovely countess owned that she had erred in disliking America and Americans. "Yet I have nobly atoned for my early mistake by taking an American for my husband," she always declares, when Colonel Lockhart twits her with her early aversion. One day they found themselves in the beautiful city of Washington, and Lady Vera expressed a wish to visit her mother's grave. It was a lovely day in spring, sweet with the breath of early flowers, when they strolled through the whispering shades of Glenwood to seek the quiet grave where Mrs. Campbell's broken heart had found rest and peace. The turf was springing green and freshly above the low mound, and fragrant violets and tender daisies starred the ground. On the marble cross at the head of the grave was carved her name and age, and one passionate plaint from her husband's bleeding and remorseful heart: "Oh, God, since she could die, The world's a grave, and hope lies buried here." "Poor mother, poor father!" Lady Vera weeps, her tears falling on the green grass for the sad fate of those two who had given her life.