"THE MYSTERY EXPLAINED.
"It is at length ascertained that the young man who was poisoned in Natchez, in a house of questionable reputation, by an abandoned female, was Vincent L'Estrange Vincent. The deceased was about twenty-five, of splendid personal appearance, and will doubtless be much regretted by the large and fashionable circle in which he moved. The murderess has not yet been apprehended."
The arrow has reached its mark—the bolt has sped—the weary search is ended—Vincent is found. Rose's Vincent?
No, not hers.
The idol is dethroned forever: the Vincent her innocent heart loved was good, and pure, and true. Rose suffers, but she no longer loves. There is a deep sense of wrong and injury, a hurried look back upon all that is lost, a shuddering look forward, from youth's blighted threshhold, at the long, dreary years yet to come—a helpless folding of the hands at Fate—a hopeless, tearless, measureless grief.
Blessed tears come quickly; lighten that heavy load; moisten those burning eyelids; unclasp those icy hands; give to those dumb lips speech; take from young life death's stony semblance!
Speak to her, Charley. Stir the deep fountains of a mother's love, poor fatherless one! Nestle close to her desolate heart. Bid her live for thee, Charley. Tell her that 'mid thorns roses are found. Tell her that to the night alone, many a dew-gemmed flower yields up its incense.