Out into the lazy June sunshine the steamer glided. With his handsome wife on his arm, the young baronet stood looking his last at his native land, his face infinitely happy.
"For years," he said, with a smile—"for life, perhaps, Harriet. I feel as if I never wished to return."
"But we shall," she said. "England is home. A few happy years in fair foreign lands, and then, Everard, back to the old land. But first, I confess, I should like again to see America, and Uncle Denover, and"—with a little laugh—"George Washington Parmalee."
For Mr. Parmalee had gone back to Dobbsville, at peace with all the world, Sir Everard Kingsland included.
"You're a brick, baronet," his parting speech had been, as he wrung that young man's hand; "you air, I swan! And your wife's another! Long may you wave!"
Sir Everard laughed aloud now at the recollection.
"Money can never repay our obligation to that worthy artist. May his shadow never be less! We shall go over to Dobbsville and see him, and have our pictures taken, next year. Look, Harriet! how the chalky cliffs are melting into the blue above! One parting peep at England, and so a long good-by to the old land!" he said, taking off his hat, and standing, radiant and happy, with the June sunlight on his handsome head.