One glance is sufficient to tell us which is Earle—there is no mistaking his grand proportions, his upright form, with its noble head setting square and firm and with manly dignity upon his broad shoulders.
He is evidently giving some directions to his companion, for they stop every now and then while Earle points here and there, and then resumes his way.
As they draw nearer the group under the beech, it is noticeable that his companion is slightly lame, and as they reach the spot he lifts his hat respectfully to Editha, smiles fondly into the eyes of the old lady who is watching Earle’s boy, and then passes on.
It is none other than Tom Drake, once the midnight robber and abductor.
Before Earle’s return he was able to be about once more, and had made himself acquainted with much pertaining to the estate.
He had worked diligently and with great interest over the accounts Earle had left him, and unheeding the admonitions of his mother, who had arrived a few days after his departure, he refused to leave them until every figure was straightened.
He had taken it upon himself to superintend the decorations of the mansion and grounds, when Earle had telegraphed on what day he should arrive at Wycliffe with his bride, and a scene of almost bewildering beauty greeted their home-coming.
It was made a day of general rejoicing, the tenantry, servants, and laborers all turning out in gala attire to give them a glorious reception and welcome to Wycliffe.
But Tom Drake had remained in the background while all others went forward to tender their good wishes and congratulations, and it was not until Earle asked particularly for him that he ventured to present himself before those two, whose lives he had done so much to render miserable. Then he came modestly forward, bearing a magnificent bouquet and wreath in his hand.
The former composed entirely of box, white bell-flowers, and blue violets, and embodying the sentiments, constancy, gratitude, and faithfulness, he placed in Earle’s hand, wishing him “long life and happiness.” The wreath, a marvel of delicate beauty, was made of the finest leaves of yew tree and graceful clusters of pure white wisteria, the leaves signifying sorrow for the past, the flowers “Welcome, fair stranger.”