familiar, life-giving voice-a voice that has power to thrill every nerve in her frame-in a word, it is Mark Sutherland's voice! and he is in the little hall, and in another moment he will be in the room.

Oh! Heaven! her face is pale, and bathed with tears he must not see her thus! In a moment the blinds are drawn down, the curtains dropped, and the room obscured, and her chair is wheeled around with its back to the windows, so as to throw her face into deep shadow. So she will await him. But Oriole enters alone, with a card.

"It is Mr. Sutherland, madame, and if you are disengaged he will be glad to see you."

She bows in assent-she can do no more; and Oriole goes out, returns, and ushers in Mr. Sutherland.

"Mrs. Ashley".

She rises, and extends her hand.

"Mrs. Ashley, I am very happy to see you again." She essays to speak, but fails, and her self-possession utterly deserts her. The hand he has taken is cold as ice-he carries it to his lips.

"My dearest India, I am so happy to find you again, after all these years."

"All these years !"-she repeats his words, mechanically, as she sinks back in her chair.

He takes the nearest seat, and resumes-"I have sought you far and wide, I have sought you for so long, I have done all but advertise you!" He added, smiling-"Why have you hidden yourself so long from all your friends?"

"The old 'sinful pride' perhaps, Mark," she answered, half smiling in her turn.

"Pride,' dear India? Ah! I understand you. Yet that same pride, in all its phases, has caused much vexation to those who love you, dear India."

"Do I not know it? And do I not regret it?"

"And to none has it caused more trouble than to myself."-But the conversation is growing personal, and closing in.

You and I, reader, are de trop-and will withdraw from the scene and wait.

The result was this-that Mr. Sutherland did not leave New York as soon as he had expected, by many weeks.

And one Sunday, before morning service, there was a quiet marriage ceremony performed before the altar of Grace Church.

And the next morning, in the list of passengers that sailed in the Baltic, for Liverpool, were the names of "Mr. and Mrs. Mark Sutherland, and two servants"the latter being Oriole, who could not live without her mistress, and Mr. Sutherland's valet, who was no other than our old friend Billy Button, who had been well drilled for some years past, and now, in a speckless suit of black, and a spotless white neckcloth, presented one of the most respectable specimens of a gentleman's gentleman.

And in the meantime, Mr. Sutherland's elegant country seat on Lake Crystal, in one of the most thriving of the Western States, was left under the charge of that grand, impartial, large-hearted, broadvisioned specimen of manhood, Mr. Billy Bolling, who had received a carte-blanche for fitting up and refurnishing the house; for, however uncertain any one might be as to Mr. Bolling's opinions, no one could doubt

his taste, which was really exquisite. And that gentleman took the greatest possible delight in preparing the mansion for the reception of the bride.

And, by the way, Mr. Bolling, by his universal agreeableness, conquered such a popularity in his own district, that he has been talked of for the Legislature, and would certainly have been made a candidate, only it seemed impossible by any means to arrive at his politics, he being claimed with equal reason by all parties.

Early in the winter, Mr. and Mrs. Sutherland returned to the United States. They went first, by invitation and pre-engagement, to spend a month among their relatives in the South.

They went to Texas, where they found Mrs. Wells, still a hale and handsome woman, though on the shady side of fifty, and the Doctor more appreciative of her real worth, and more attached to her now than he was at the period of his mercenary marriage. They spent one happy month with the Wellses, and then, accompanied by Mrs. Wells, went into Louisiana, to pay a long-promised visit to Lincoln Lauderdale and his vivacious little lady.

They found them well and prosperous, and surrounded by a thriving young family. Little change had time made in Lincoln or the piquant "Nan." A month was whiled away in their pleasant society, and so it was near spring before the Sutherlands, still accompanied by Mrs. Wells, set out up the river for their North-Western home.

And it was quite spring when they reached the beautiful shores of Lake Crystal, and entered their

own elegant home. Mrs. Wells remained with them. and spent the summer.

And she still continues to come every year to spend her summers with her "beloved Mark," her "only child." Mark and India occasionally return those visits in the winter-that is, when Mr. Sutherland's official duties permit him to do so. For Mark Sutherland is still a rising politician, adored by one party and abhorred by another. And, in the present hopeful state of the public mind, it is impossible to predict of any given contest whether the people mean to elect or mob their own candidate.

But, aside from Mr. Sutherland's public life, his home is a very happy one. In his profession he has realized a handsome fortune. By the death of her Uncle Paul, at an advanced age, India has inherited a large property, so that they are entirely independent in their pecuniary circumstances. India is as beautiful but no longer as proud as Juno, Queen of Goddesses, and is the centre of a very refined and intellectual circle. They have two fine children-a beautiful boy, whom they named Mark—and a lovely little girl, whom they called India.

Mrs. Sutherland, in a mood of magnanimity, proposed that this child should be christened Rosalie; but Mr. Sutherland could by no means be brought to consent to that. No! the child must have its mother's name-only hers. And so she had. India was flattered and pleased. And Mark Sutherland was exactly right.

Was Rosalie then forgotten?

No! no! and a thousand times no! She was well remembered. Her name was a sacred, sacred name,

that he could not bear to give to another creature. I was hers and hers only; it represented her individuality; it stood to him for all that was most beautiful, pure, lovely and sweet-aye, heavenly! He could not bear to bestow it upon India's child, passionately as he loved that child and its mother. Reader, do you understand that? India had once been his boyhood's passion, as she was now his manhood's love. He preferred her immeasurably before all living women. She was a handsome, intellectual, and warm-hearted woman, eminently fitted to make a man like Mark Sutherland happy. And his marriage with her was eminently appy.

The beautiful India was his Hertha, but there was ne who had gone before who was and is his Psyche. And deep in his heart is a chamber into which no mortal creature entereth-a sanctuary closely veiled from all human knowledge-a holy of holies, sacred to one earthly memory and one heavenly hope— consecrated to the veiled worship of his angel wife

ROSALIE

FINIS