The Hiltons have not paid another visit to the palm-tree palace on the river where Chumbley has his home, but they hear from him occasionally as well as from the Harleys, and the reports always tell of perfect happiness in their far-off land.
“I tell you what it is, Grey,” says Hilton to his wife, the day after they had reached England, and she had held up her last little offering for him to kiss its tiny wet mouth, “I’ll bet a five-pound note that old Chumbley would give something if his youngsters were as fair as that;” and Grey says that for her part she does not think the colour of the skin matters so long as the heart is in its right place, to which her father, who has just come in, says:
“That’s a verra good remairk, my dear. Do you know I’m glad to my heart I’ve managed to scrape five thousand together out of Perowne’s estate, and the old man has settled it upon his children!”
“Five thousand! a nice little bonne bouche for Harley!” says Hilton.
“A man who thoroughly deserves it,” says his wife; “for I’m sure a truer-hearted gentleman never existed. But I have had a letter from Helen, and she tells me that Mr Harley is coming to England for a year’s leave. I am to answer to the hotel in Paris. What am I to say?”
“Say?” cried Hilton; “tell her and her husband that we are comfortably settled here, and as long as there is a roof and a bed, with something in the way of rations, there will always be a welcome for them both.”
The End.