“Why, Aunt Rachel,” exclaimed Mrs. Crump, “where have you been? We have been so anxious about you.”
A faint flush came to Aunt Rachel's sallow cheek.
“Sister Mary,” said she, “you will be surprised, perhaps, but—but this is my consort. Mr. Smith, let me introduce you to my sister.”
“Then you are married, Rachel,” said Mrs. Crump, quite confounded.
“Yes,” said Rachel; “I—I don't expect to live long, and it won't make much difference.”
“I congratulate you, Mrs. Smith,” said Mary Crump, heartily; “and I wish you a long and happy life, I am sure.”
It is observed that, since her marriage, Aunt Rachel's fits of depression are less numerous than before. She has even been seen to smile repeatedly, and has come to bear, with philosophical equanimity, her nephew Jack's sly allusions to her elopement.
One word more. At the close of her term of confinement, Peg came to Mrs. Clifton, and reminded her of her promise. Dick was dead, and she was left alone in the world. Imprisonment had not hardened her as it so often does. She had been redeemed by the kindness of those she had injured. Mrs. Clifton secured her a position in which her energy and administrative ability found fitting exercise, and she leads a laborious and useful life, in a community where her antecedents are not known.
END.