PEACE.

It came with tears. But, ah! it lifted such an awful load from the hearts even of those who loved the lost cause. Husbands snatched their wives once more to their bosoms, and the dear, brave, swarthy, rough-bearded, gray-jacketed boys were caught again in the wild arms of mothers and sisters. Everywhere there was glad, tearful kissing. Everywhere? Alas for the silent lips that remained unkissed, and the arms that remained empty! And alas for those to whom peace came too suddenly and too soon! Poor Narcisse!

His salary still continues. So does his aunt.

The Ristofalos came back all together. How delighted Mrs. Colonel Ristofalo—I say Mrs. Colonel Ristofalo—was to see Mary! And how impossible it was, when they sat down together for a long talk, to avoid every moment coming back to the one subject of “him.”

“Yes, ye see, there bees thim as is called col-o-nels, whin in fact they bees only liftinent col-o-nels. Yes. But it’s not so wid him. And he’s no different from the plain Raphael Ristofalah of eight year ago—the same perfict gintleman that he was when he sold b’iled eggs!”

And the colonel’s “lady” smiled a gay triumph that gave Mary a new affection for her.

Sister Jane bowed to the rod of an inscrutable Providence. She could not understand how the Confederacy could fail, and justice still be justice; so, without understanding, she left it all to Heaven, and clung to her faith. Her brother-in-law never recovered his fortunes nor his sweetness. He could not bend his neck to the conqueror’s yoke; he went in search of liberty to Brazil—or was it Honduras? Little matter which, now, for he died there, both he and his wife, just as their faces were turning again homeward, and it was dawning upon them once more that there is no land like Dixie in all the wide world over.

The little rector—thanks, he says, to the skill of Dr. Sevier!—recovered perfectly the use of his mangled foot, so that he even loves long walks. I was out walking with him one sunset hour in the autumn of—if I remember aright—1870, when whom should we spy but our good Kate Ristofalo, out driving in her family carriage? The cherubs were beside her,—strong, handsome boys. Mike held the reins; he was but thirteen, but he looked full three years better than that, and had evidently employed the best tailor in St. Charles street to fit his rather noticeable clothes. His mother had changed her mind about his being a bruiser, though there isn’t a doubt he had a Derringer in one or another of his pockets. No, she was proposing to make him a doctor—“a surgeon,” she said; “and thin, if there bees another war”—She was for making every edge cut.

She did us the honor to stop the carriage, and drive up to the curb-stone for a little chat. Her spirits were up, for Colonel Ristofalo had just been made a city councilman by a rousing majority.

We expressed our regret not to see Raphael himself in the family group enjoying the exquisite air.

“Ha, ha! He ride out for pleasure?”—And then, with sudden gravity,—“Aw, naw, sur! He’s too busy. Much use ut is to be married to a public man! Ah! surs, I’m mighty tired of ut, now I tell ye!” Yet she laughed again, without betraying much fatigue. “And how’s Dr. Sevier?”

“He’s well,” said the clergyman.

“And Mrs. Richling?”

“She’s well, too.”

Kate looked at the little rector out of the corners of her roguish Irish eyes, a killing look, and said:—

“Ye’re sure the both o’ thim bees well?”

“Yes, quite well,” replied he, ignoring the inane effort at jest. She nodded a blithe good-day, and rolled on toward the lake, happy as the harvest weather, and with a kind heart for all the world. We walked on, and after the walk I dined with the rector. Dr. Sevier’s place was vacant, and we talked of him. The prettiest piece of furniture in the dining-room was an extremely handsome child’s high chair that remained, unused, against the wall. It was Alice’s, and Alice was an almost daily visitor. It had come in almost simultaneously with Laura’s marriage, and more and more frequently, as time had passed, the waiter had set it up to the table, at the Doctor’s right hand, and lifted Goldenhair into it, until by and by she had totally outgrown it. But she had not grown out of the place of favor at the table. In these later days she had become quite a school-girl, and the Doctor, in his place at the table, would often sit with a faint, continuous smile on his face that no one could bring there but her, to hear her prattle about Madame Locquet, and the various girls at Madame Locquet’s school.

“It’s actually pathetic,” said Laura, as we sat sipping our coffee after the meal, “to see how he idolizes that child.” Alice had just left the room.

“Why don’t he idolize the child’s”—began her husband, in undertone, and did not have to finish to make us understand.

“He does,” murmured the smiling wife.

“Then why shouldn’t he tell her so?”

“My dear!” objected the wife, very softly and prettily.

“I don’t mean to speak lightly,” responded the husband, “but—they love each other; they suit each other; they complete each other; they don’t feel their disparity of years; they’re both so linked to Alice that it would break either heart over again to be separated from her. I don’t see why”—

Laura shook her head, smiling in the gentle way that only the happy wives of good men have.

“It will never be.”

What changes!

“The years creep slowly by”—

We seem to hear the old song yet. What changes! Laura has put two more leaves into her dining-table. Children fill three seats. Alice has another. It is she, now, not her chair, that is tall—and fair. Mary, too, has a seat at the same board. This is their home now. Her hair is turning all to silver. So early? Yes; but she is—she never was—so beautiful! They all see it—feel it; Dr. Sevier—the gentle, kind, straight old Doctor—most of all. And oh! when they two, who have never joined hands on this earth, go to meet John and Alice,—which God grant may be at one and the same time,—what weeping there will be among God’s poor!

THE END.