moment to tell that Mrs. Hatteraick had arrived,
and it was a long time after that before I had
another conversation with Sylvia Elphinstone.

Mrs. Hatteraick remained at the Mill-house
till after the funeral. I did all I could to
mollify her exceeding disgust at Sylvia's
conduct, but her joy at her son's freedom, and I
think at mine, too, did more to move her to
forgiveness than anything I could say. Luke
was very sheepish in my presence at first. If I
had been Sylvia, I should have been ashamed of
him, but Sylvia was too happy to be disturbed
by any mortal annoyance.

Mrs. Hatteraick carried me off with her to
Eldergowan. I was obliged to go; I was not
allowed to have any will in the matter. And,
indeed, I found myself without a home in which
I had any claim to stay. Before I left the Mill-
house, I went through a little ceremony with
Luke. I made him take with his own hand the
diamond ring from my finger and give it to
Sylvia, who hung it to her chain.

Two quiet months passed, during which all
the happy charm of the Eldergowan homestead
gathered back about my heart with more than
its old force. All around me seemed doing
everything in their power to make it the most
difficult thing in the world for me ever to leave
Eldergowan again. I soon saw that Mark
Hatteraick was resolved to make it impossible,
if that might lie in his power. I said that it
should not lie in his power, for I was terribly
jealous of his short engagement to Sylvia. But
the keeping of this resolution was such sore
work that it nearly wore me to death, and,
lying on a sick-bed, I came at last to the
conclusion that it is the merest folly for strong love
to think of bearing malice in a woman's heart.

The first day I was able to walk out, Mark
asked me to go for a ramble with him and the
children to the Eldergowan woods. A high
wind was sweeping through the trees overhead
with a grand roar, and we could hear the
children's voices in the distance shouting to
each other about the dry cones, for which they
were searching in the underwood. On that day
Mark and I had a long, long talk. I am only
going to tell a few words of what he said.

"Mattie," he said, "did Sylvia ever tell you
anything of how my strange engagement to her
came about?"

I remembered her words, "Do not blame
him; it was all my fault;" and I said:

"She told me something—that it was her
doing."

"I am glad she was so generous," he said.
"I thought her happiness depended upon me,
and I was stung by your conduct, which I then
judged unfairly in my ignorance. After I had
given my promise, I would have forfeited half
my life to recal it, for I knew I never could love
Sylvia Ashenhurst. Shall I say any more upon
this subject, or shall I let it drop for evermore?"

"Let it drop," I said.

After that he said a great deal more in quite
a different manner, but I am not going to write
it down here for everybody to read. He finished
by asking me to be his wife. I do not know
what I answered, but I know that I am his wife
now. And this was the way that my year
ended.

I have been out in India with my husband,
leaving my two little children at home with
their grandmother, and now, on my return, I
find many things changed. Mrs. Hatteraick is
well, and still the dearest mother that ever a
husband gave to his wife, but Polly and Nell are
quite grown-up girls. Miss Pollard has vanished
from the village, but Mrs. Strong is flourishing
in the doctor's home. Elspie, who lives, of
course, with me, is very feeble, and I do believe
it is only the sight of my children that keeps
her alive. She is peaceful now in her mind,
she says, because the bairn is happy, and the
mistress takes her rest. It may be that I ought
to have kept this part of my story, about my
mother's spirit, to myself, but it is written
down now, believe it or not, who will.

In the Mill-house those many changes are
made which I have described in the beginning
of my story. Yesterday I drove over to see
Sylvia. She met me with a baby in her arms
and two curly heads bobbing about her knees, a
beautiful buxom matron. She filled the hands
of the little ones, mine and hers, with cakes,
and hushed them out into the sun, like a flock
of chickens, to play, while she and I had our
cup of tea and our chat. Luke came in and
joined us. I think he is greatly improved, much
better and happier than ever he would have
been with a wife who had loved him less than
Sylvia. He is pretty well as a man, except
when he stands beside my Mark.

I lay down my pen and go to the window to
look out on the dear familiar woods and fields
of my Eldergowan home. I fancy I can see the
smoke from the Streamstown Mills hanging
faintly among the clouds in the distance, and
the old purring of the wheels comes across my
heart like the murmur of memory's voice which
has been whispering back to me all the incidents
of this little tale which I have been telling.
Very solemn thoughts come and go about my
father and mother and Dick, and I search along
the horizon for the trees of the graveyard. But
solemn thoughts are soon scattered in this
house. Here is grandmamma coming round
the gable with two little trots scattering grain
to the pigeons. Here, too, is Mark coming
across the lawn with his gun. How brave and
beaming he looks. He will come into this room
in a minute, and then I shall have finished the
last word of this story that he asked me to
write; and I shall put the manuscript in his
hands.

       MR. CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS.

MR. CHARLES DICKENS will read at St. James's Hall,
London, for the last time this season, on Monday the
13th of May.