Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Eight.

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A week after, Charley and Ella were in the hall, and about to leave their house, when there was a summons at the door, and they retreated to the drawing-room.

“Mr and Mrs Hugh Lingon,” announced the butler the next minute; and a fair fat young man entered, with a tall handsome lady, who threw back her mantle, and rushed at Ella, to clasp her in her arms, kissing and sobbing over her for a minute, before darting away, rushing at Charley Vining, throwing her arms round his neck, and kissing him with a loud smack.

“There! I forgot!” she exclaimed the next moment, half laughing, half crying; “but you won’t mind, dear Hugh, it’s only old Charley Vining, whom I’ve loved ever since I was a tiny girl. But my own dear, dear, darling Miss Bedford—for I can’t ever call you anything else—I am so, so, so glad to see you again. And we were only married yesterday, and I wouldn’t go anywhere else till Hugh brought me to see you both. And you will love me still, won’t you?”

As she spoke she threw herself on the carpet at Ella’s feet, clasping her round the waist, and nestling closely to her, and in spite of every effort, insisting upon staying there till they left.

There was no going out that day; for London ceremony had to be set aside for country hospitality, and it was late when the Lingons left, to start the next morning for Paris; as quaint, but as amiable and happy a couple as ever the sun shone upon.

But before leaving, heedless of his dark-veiled brow, Nelly Lingon told Charley that Max was married to “such an old screw-cum—a rich old dowager; while Laura”—and she spoke now sadly—“Laura ran off with a French count, when we were all at Baden; and I’m afraid he’s a brute to her. But I’m sorry for Laura, Charley,” said Nelly; “for, after her fashion, I think she loved you!”

How the years glide by! Blandfield again, with Charley Vining more portly and noble-looking than ever. It is a glorious sunshiny day, and in his broad hat and velvet coat he looks free, happy, and hearty, as he leads a little gem of an Exmoor pony in either hand, on one of which is a sturdy-looking curly-headed boy, shouting with glee, and drumming the pony’s sides with his little heels; on the other, a sweet-faced girl a couple of years older, whose fair hair hangs down to the waist of her tiny riding-habit.

But we have not done. Standing by a chair, placed upon the lawn, her hand held by Sir Philip Vining, not looking a day older, but watching with a grandfather’s fondness the children led round and round, is Ella—the same sweet-faced gentle Ella as of old, with the same glorious clusters and braids looped back from her pure white forehead. There is a glow, too, upon her countenance—it may be from pride, or merely that from the sun, as she holds a shade above her shapely head.

And there we leave her in her home of peace, rich in the love of her husband, her children, and that of her new parent, whose great delight upon one occasion it was to superintend the placing of Ella’s portrait in the library, side by side with the picture upon which he loved to gaze.

“How well they match, Charley!” Sir Philip said. “It is like making my room complete—her face is so soft and gentle. It is a splendid likeness. God bless her! she makes glad my old age; and,” he added, with a glance of his old pride, “she is by birth a lady!—”

The End.