New York, June 14, 18—.

To-morrow I am to take my old name of Thornton again, and be Guy's wife once more. Nor does it seem strange at all that I should do so, for I have never thought of myself as not belonging to him, even when I knew he was married to another. And yet when that dreadful night at Saratoga I went to Julia's room, there was in my heart no thought of this which has come to me. I only wished to care for her and be a help to Guy. I did not think of her dying, and after she was dead, there was not a thought of the future in my mind until little Daisy put it there by asking if I would be her mamma. Then I seemed to see it all, and expected it up to the very day, six weeks ago, when Guy wrote to me, "Daisy, I want you. Will you come to me again as my wife?"

I was not surprised. I knew he would say it sometime, and I replied at once, "Yes, Guy, I will."

He has been here since, and we have talked it over, all the past when I made him so unhappy, and when I, too, was so wretched, though I did not say much about that, or tell him of the dull, heavy, gnawing pain which, sleeping or waking, I carried with me so long, and only lost when I began to live for others. I did speak of the letter, and said I had loved him ever since I wrote it, and that his marrying Julia made no difference, and then I told him of poor Tom, and what I said to him, not from love but from a sense of duty, and when I told him how Tom would not take me at my word, he held me close to him and said, "I am glad he did not, my darling, for then you would never have been mine."

I think we both wept over those two graves, one far off in sunny France, the other in Saratoga, and both felt how sad it was that they must be made in order to bring us together. Poor Julia! She was a noble woman, and Guy did love her. He told me so, and I am glad of it. I mean to try to be like her in those things wherein she excelled me.

We are going straight to Cuylerville to the house where I never was but once, and that on the night when Guy was sick and Miss Frances made me go back in the thunder and rain. She is sorry for that, for she told me so in the long, kind letter she wrote, calling me her little sister and telling me how glad she is to have me back once more. Accidentally I heard Elmwood was for sale, and without letting Guy know I bought it, and sent him the deed, and we are going to make it the most attractive place in the county.

It will be our summer home, but in the winter my place is here in New York with my people, who would starve and freeze without me. Guy has agreed to that and will be a great help to me. He need never work any more unless he chooses to do so, for my agent says I am a millionaire, thanks to poor Tom, who gave me his gold mine and his interest in that railroad. And for Guy's sake I am glad, and for his children, the precious darlings; how much I love them already, and how kind I mean to be to them both for Julia's sake and Guy's. Hush! That's his ring, and there's his voice in the hall asking for Miss McDonald, and so for the last time I write that name, and sign myself

Margaret McDonald.

Extracts from Miss Frances Thornton's Diary.

Elmwood, June 15th, —.

I have been looking over an old journal, finished and laid away long ago, and accidentally I stumbled upon a date eleven years back. It was Guy's wedding day then; it is his anniversary now, and as on that June day years ago I worked among my flowers, so have I been with them this morning, and as then people from the Towers came into our beautiful grounds, so they came to-day and praised our lovely place and said there was no spot like it in all the country round. But Julia was not with them. She will never come to us again. Julia is dead, and her grave is in Saratoga, for Guy dare not have her moved, but he has erected a costly monument to her memory, and the mound above her is like some bright flower bed all the summer long, for he hires a man to tend it, and goes twice each season to see that it is kept as he wishes to have it. Julia is dead and Daisy is here again at Elmwood, which she purchased with her own money, and fitted up with every possible convenience and luxury.

Guy is ten years younger than he used to be, and we are all so happy with this little fairy, who has expanded into a noble woman, and whom I love as I never loved a living being before, Guy excepted, of course. I never dreamed when I turned her out into the rain that I should love her as I do, or that she was capable of being what she is. I would not have her changed in any one particular, and neither, I am sure, would Guy, while the children fairly worship her, and must sometimes be troublesome with their love and their caresses.

It is just a year since she came back to us. We were in the small house then, but Daisy's very presence seemed to brighten and beautify it, until I was almost sorry to leave it last April for this grand place with all its splendor.

There was no wedding at all; that is, there were no invited guests, but never had bride greater honor at her bridal than our Daisy had, for the church where the ceremony was performed, at a very early hour in the morning, was literally crowded with the halt, the lame, the maimed and the blind; the slum of New York; gathered from every back street, and by-lane, and gutter; Daisy's "people," as she calls them, who came to see her married, and who, strangest of all, brought with them a present for the bride; a beautiful family Bible, golden clasped and bound, and costing fifty dollars. Sandy McGraw presented it, and he had written upon the fly leaf, "To the dearest friend we ever had, we give this book, as a slight token of how much we love her." Then followed, upon a sheet of paper, the names of the donors and how much each gave. Oh, how Daisy cried when she saw the ten cents, and the five cents, and the three cents, and the one cent, and knew it had all been earned and saved at some personal sacrifice for her. I do believe she would have kissed every one of them if Guy had permitted it. She did kiss the children and shook every hard, soiled hand there, and then Guy took her away and brought her to our home, where she has been the sweetest, merriest, happiest, little creature that ever a man called wife, or a woman sister. She does leave her things round a little, to be sure, and she is not always ready for breakfast. I guess she never will wholly overcome those habits, but I can put up with them now better than I could once. Love makes a vast difference in our estimate of others, and she could scarcely ruffle me now, even if she kept breakfast waiting every morning and left her clothes lying three garments deep upon the floor. As for Guy,—but his happiness is something I cannot describe. Nothing can disturb his peace, which is as firm as the everlasting hills. He does not caress her as much as he did once, but his thoughtful care of her is wonderful, and she is never long from his sight without his going to seek her.

May God bless them and keep them always as they are now, at peace with Him and all in all to each other.