“If you like,” she answered quietly, “you may tell them that; but, Richard, when I think of the future, it is all like a dream. I cannot imagine that the dear old Grange is to be my home.”

“You will find it very real,” he replied. “Think what walks we shall have on Sunday afternoons, with Bill Sykes and his companions; and when you go into the drawing-room to make tea, Tim and Spot will not be left outside.”

“Wait a moment, Richard look at that sunset;” and Bessie pointed to the western heavens, which were bathed in a glow of golden light. They had reached the end of the wood; a wide stretch of country lay before them. How still and quiet it was! even the birds’ twitterings had ceased. Bessie’s eyes grew soft and wistful; the sunset glories had reminded her of Hatty in her far-off home.

Down below them lay the bay, like a sea of glass mingled with fire. “Thank God, all is well with my Hatty!” she thought; and then she turned to Richard with a gentle smile, and they went slowly back through the wood again, talking quietly of the days that were to be.

THE END.

Transcriber’s Note:

Changes to the original publication have been made as follows: