Upon a graceful rustic seat there are sitting two beautiful women.
Editha, fair and lovely as of old, no cloud to dim the blue of her sunny eyes, no care or trouble having left a line on her white brow. She is a trifle more matronly in her appearance, has a bit more of dignity, perhaps, but is otherwise unchanged. Her companion is a lady of perhaps thirty-two or three years, whose face impresses one at once with its expression of sweetness and gentleness. It is a face that we have seen before, and that once seen could never be forgotten.
The lady is none other than the one we have known as Miss Isabelle Grafton, the daughter of Bishop Grafton, that good old man who married Earle’s mother.
Standing behind her, his eyes resting with peculiar fondness upon her face, is a noble-appearing man. It is Paul Tressalia, her husband of a few months.
Madam’s prophecy had come true, and he had at last found the “woman whom he should marry,” and they are as quietly, calmly happy as they could ever hope to be in this world, neither feeling, perhaps, the fervor of a first passion, but loving earnestly and with an enduring affection that would grow riper with every year.
It was this gentle woman’s face that had come, unbidden, to Paul Tressalia’s mind on that day when madam had told him that he would yet find one good and true who would fill the wants of his nature better than Editha could ever do.
A year after his return to England they had met again; each had attracted the other, and out of it had grown the union, which bade fair to be a most happy one.
At Editha’s feet there is playing a dark-eyed, noble-looking boy of two years—little Paul, the future Marquis of Wycliffe; while an old lady, of perhaps sixty, sits at a respectful distance and watches with her heart in her eyes his every movement, lest he should annoy “my lady” with his play and his constant prattle. This latter is Tom Drake’s mother. A short distance away there paces back and forth under the trees a white-aproned, white-capped nurse, with a fair-haired, blue-eyed little girl in her arms—the “small Lady Isabelle” she is called, being as yet only three months old, and of very tiny though perfect proportions.
The only remaining one of this group—Madam Forrester—reclines in a chair a little in the background. She is as handsome and attractive as ever, with a tranquil joy in her face that bespeaks very little to wish for even in this world. Her white shapely hands are busied with some dainty piece of work destined to grace the “small ladyship,” who is her particular pride and comfort, while every now and then she joins in the conversation carried on chiefly by Editha and Paul Tressalia and his wife.
Down the broad drive-way at some distance, and approaching slowly, are two men.