Five happy years had passed since Hilda had become the cherished wife of Mr. Courtney, and during those years Mrs. Warfield had spent two winters at “My Lady’s Manor,” and was there for the third. She was expecting to return to her Ohio home, for spring had again made the earth jubilant with the song of birds and fragrant with the perfume of flowers.

Although no confidences were solicited or given upon the subject, Hilda knew that her beloved guest was happier during these visits than at any other time since Paul’s marriage, because away from the domineering presence of Mrs. Lura, who was growing more like Jerusha Flint every year of her life.

No childish voices disturbed the quietude of the farmhouse; perfect order reigned, and Mrs. Lura could devote all the time she wished to embroidery, the chief pleasure of her existence.

There were many reasons for the sojourn at “My Lady’s Manor” being pleasant to Mrs. Warfield, not the least of which was having Fred so near, a lawyer in good position, popular in society as he had been in Springfield, and, as was characteristic, falling in love with every beautiful face new to him.

Mr. Courtney invited him frequently to pass the night with them, taking him back to his office in the morning; and Fred thought, as had Hilda years before, that nothing was more enjoyable than the drive in a luxurious carriage drawn by a span of handsome, spirited horses.

Then Mrs. Warfield was always happy in the company of children, and believed that no better or handsomer boy could be found than the small Valentine; and the dainty blue-eyed darling—Sarah Warfield Courtney—was, in her eyes, the perfection of infantile beauty and excellence.

Another tie which bound her to Hilda and Hilda’s home was the articles which had belonged to Mrs. Ashley; and she passed some time each day in the room containing them; relics hallowed by the touch of the lovely and beloved young sister.

She loved the neighborhood of Dorton and its people; she and Mrs. Carl Courtney were congenial in every way, were members of the same denomination, and although both were too broad-minded to be rigidly sectarian, it was a dear tie that attached them to each other.

Her visit, however, was nearly finished, and she was making preparations to return to Springfield, when she received a letter from Mrs. Lura, eminently characteristic of that managing little matron. It read:

“Dear Mother—I think you will be surprised to hear of a change made in our household arrangements. Father has always been lonely since I married and left him, and it occurred to me that it would save me much time and trouble going back and forth if I could have him with us. So he has given up the parsonage, and as he has always been accustomed to a large front room with southern exposure, and where sunlight comes in freely, I have given him yours, which, being just across the hall from Paul’s and mine, I think suits him well, and I am sure you should be satisfied with the one back of it, as Angie tells me you used it the summer that Mrs. Lacy and two other visitors were at the farmhouse, so you must have preferred it.

“Believing that you cannot fail in agreeing to this, I remain

“Your affectionate daughter,

“Lura Warfield.”

After receiving this epistle it appeared to be a suitable time for Mr. and Mrs. Courtney to again urge their loved friend to remain with them, and as that letter seemed to be the only thing required to make her decide, she agreed to stay.

They all had occasion to rejoice that she had thus decided, for the next week after she had appointed to go to Ohio, little Valentine was ill of scarlet fever, and Mrs. Warfield, who loved the boy as if he were of her own flesh and blood, was, next to Hilda, his devoted nurse.

“’Pears like ter me, Kitty,” said Andy one morning when the dangerous symptoms were at their height, “dat Marse Val didn’t seem chipper dis mornin’ when he com’d over to see Marse Carl an’ Mis’ Emma; has yer took notice to it, Kitty?”

“Marse Val never looked handsomer than he did this yer mornin’,” replied Kitty, decidedly.

“I didn’t say nothin’ ’bout handsome, Kitty!” exclaimed Andy irately. “I done said he wan’t so chipper. I don’t like dat pale face, Kitty; ’tain’t for no good, min’ dat.”

“I may as well tell you, Uncle Andy,” said Kitty, hesitatingly, “that Chloe told me all about it; she was in de china closet when Mis’ Emma was over dar yistady, and heard her an’ Mis’ Warfield talkin’. De doctor comes twice a day to see little Marse Valentine and little Mis’ Sarah; dey has de scarlet fever, an’ Dr. Lattinger is afeard dat little Marse Valentine won’t live.”

“Well! well! well!” cried Andy, shaking his white head, and brushing away a tear with the back of his wrinkled hand. “I’s nearly a hundred years ol’, an’ has toted Marse Val in my arms when he was a chipper baby. I done lubed dat chile like I lubed my own chillen, an’ now can’t help him none in his trouble.”

“We must all have trouble in dis world, Uncle Andy.”

“I know dat, but de good Lord won’t shorely take little Marse Val an’ leave me who ain’t no ’count nohow. I’s like a withered apple on a dead branch, dat no wind nor frost nor hail kin fotch down from offen de tree.”

“Chloe told me that Dr. Lattinger says much depends on de nursin’, and dey has good nurses. I tell you that it is a mighty good thing Mis’ Hilda has dat Ohio lady to call on in time of trouble.”

“’Pears ter me yer knows a heap dis mornin’, Kitty,” remarked Andy dryly. “’Spose yer was ’tendin’ to keep all dis from de ol’ man.”

“No, Uncle Andy, but Mis’ Emma said it was better not to tell you unless you asked, for it would only distress you, for you think so much of Marse Val.”

“Of course I does, Kitty, but nobody wants to be kep’ in de dark, yer knows dat yer own self! Ol’ folks wants ter know what is goin’ on, an’ how is dey ter know widout somebody tells ’em?”

“I will tell you all I know, Uncle Andy,” said Kitty remorsefully, as the old man took out a remnant of plaid handkerchief to dry his tears. “What do you want to know next?”

“Whar did de chillen catch de feber?”

“Dr. Lattinger says it is in de atmosphere.”

“Is dat sumpin’ to eat or drink, Kitty?”

“No, it is the air.”

“Den why couldn’t he say de air? Oh, ’twill be mighty hard for Marse Val to part wid dat little boy and gal. Dey is de light of his eyes.”

“But maybe he won’t have to part wid dem, Uncle Andy,” said Kitty, cheerfully, “and de sorrow of a night will be forgot in de joy of de mornin’.”

“But I am afeard dey’ll be taken, Kitty,” sighed the old man tearfully. “I ain’t axed my heavenly Marster to let me lib a little longer, not sense I had seen Marse Val so happy in dem chillen, but I suttenly wants to lib now; an’ if dey is taken I hope de good Lord will spare ol’ Andy to comfort Marse Val.”

Andy was spared this grief, for to the joy of many hearts the children recovered; and when the balmy summer weather came were well enough to enjoy many pleasant drives over the shady country roads.

Hilda, though favored with efficient helpers, lived far from an idle, aimless life, for her days were filled with good works. The plans originated by Mr. Courtney for promoting the temporal and spiritual welfare of his fellow creatures were heartily seconded by her; she was in every way a helpmeet.

Time passed speedily and happily in their home, varied by visits from friends from the city and the neighborhood, one of the best loved being Erma Merryman. She had returned from her school in Baltimore, a cultured and accomplished young lady, cherished by the home circle and admired in society.

Fred, in his frequent visits to “My Lady’s Manor,” saw, admired, and as was his wont, fell in love with her which impelled Hilda to have a serious talk with him.

“Erma is a sweet, confiding girl,” she said, “and if you are only intending to flirt with her I consider it my duty to warn her and her parents that their confidence in you is misplaced; for you will leave her for the next pretty face you see.”

“Oh, Cousin Hilda, please don’t prejudice them against me! I am really in earnest this time.”

“So you always say. Fred, what does make you so fickle and inconsistent?”

“Absence, Cousin Hilda.”

“Absence! Oh, shame. What style of husband would you make when you so easily forget a loved one when separated for a time?”

“But the case would be entirely different, if the lady were my wife. Never fear, Cousin Hilda. If I am fortunate enough to win Miss Erma Merryman you will see me one of the best of husbands; you will be proud of me yet.”

“Listen, Fred; you and your family have been dear, kind friends to me; but so, also, have been Uncle and Aunt Merryman, and it would distress me beyond measure to have them made unhappy through you.”

“But I will not give them unhappiness; instead, I wish to give them a son-in-law first-class in every respect. Do, Cousin Hilda, lend a helping hand by speaking a good word for me.”

“No, sir; I will do nothing of the kind. Making or breaking matrimonial engagements is something at which my conscience rebels; and if ever I should be tempted to aid in that line, it certainly would not be for one so unsettled in the affections as yourself.”

Fred laughed in his usual amiable and lighthearted manner, but Hilda was too much disturbed to smile.

“It was never excusable in you, Fred, even with youth on your side; but at your age it is positively culpable. You will lose the respect of all right-minded people, for if there is a person who merits ridicule, it is a light-headed, trifling old beau.”

“But Cousin Hilda, how can I convince you that I am in earnest this time? I really love Miss Erma and intend asking her to be my wife.”

“No doubt; but unless you give me your word of honor, as a gentleman, that you will not trifle with the affections of that lovely girl, but will keep your word, Mr. Courtney and myself will not consider you worthy of respect, and our home will be closed against you.”

“I do give you my word of honor as a gentleman that I will ask Erma Merryman to be my wife; and if she accepts, will ask the very earliest time that she will agree to for our marriage, and will not make the least effort to break the engagement though the face of an houri should tempt me. Will that satisfy you, Cousin Hilda?”

“Yes, and no one will rejoice more than I to see you happily married; and you cannot fail in happiness if your wife be Erma Merryman.”

The evening that Hilda and Fred had this conversation Erma received a letter from Anita Appleton, a school friend in Hagerstown, accepting the cordial invitation given her by Erma the week before, to pass a month at the Merryman farmhouse.

She had scarcely finished the perusal of it when Fred called and was told of the expected visitor, and innocent satisfaction beamed in her gentle face when she noticed that his brow grew clouded, and the smile left his lips.

“You do not seem glad, Mr. Warfield,” she said. “I am sure you will be pleased with her. She is not only very beautiful, but is lovely in disposition. She is accomplished and witty; very different from me, which is, I suppose, my reason for loving her more than any girl in the school in Baltimore.”

“I am glad for your sake, Miss Erma, but not for my own. I wish only your society,” he said, taking her small, white hand in his, “not only for the evenings of the coming month, but for all time. I came to ask you to be my wife,” and accustomed as was Fred to making proposals of marriage, his voice trembled with apprehension as to the answer.

Erma’s face flushed, then paled, and she remained silent; a silence which Fred misconstrued.

“I am aware that it was my duty to have first asked your parents’ consent, but you have given but little encouragement that you cared for me, and now this expected visitor has unsettled my plans.”

Erma was still silent; she seemed to be collecting her thoughts for an answer.

“Promise me that you will be my wife; promise now, before a stranger steps in to prevent us being alone together! If you will consent, I will seek the consent of your father and mother before I leave this evening.”

“I must have time to consider,” said Erma; “you cannot expect me to take such an important step without reflection, or consultation with papa and mamma.”

“But you can certainly give me some hope, or appoint some early date when you can give me your decision!”

“Yes, I will appoint a time,” she said, gently. “When Anita’s visit is over, if you ask me again I will give you my decision. There is no need to speak to papa and mamma in regard to it; their only wish is for my happiness. They could say no more to you than I have already done, and I am sure that they will give free and full consent to any choice I may make.”

“But I would be so much happier if you would promise me now, so much more settled in mind than if kept in suspense for more than a month.”

“The time will soon pass, and we must bend all our thoughts toward making Anita’s visit pleasant. We will take her out driving and on horseback. Cecil Courtney would, I think, help make a party of four for many a pleasant expedition.”

“Then Cecil must be her escort; I will not give you up to him!” said Fred, his face flushing warmly.

“We will not consult our own pleasure,” replied Erma, gently. “Whatever will be most agreeable to Anita for the short time she will be here must be our pleasure. I only hope that you will assist in entertaining her by coming as many evenings as you can.”

“There is nothing to prevent my coming from Baltimore every evening with Mr. Courtney; you know that I have a standing invitation to ‘My Lady’s Manor.’ Mr. Courtney is glad to have my company in the drive out and back to the city.”

“I know it; Mr. Courtney loves you as he would an own brother.”

Early the following week Miss Appleton came, was cordially welcomed by the Merrymans, and proved to be one of the most agreeable of guests, a brilliant, attractive creature, with whom every member of the family felt at home from the moment she crossed the door sill, and whose cheery presence seemed to pervade the whole house.

Anita had perfect taste in dress; and every article of her artistic and elegant wardrobe was becoming to her. More than once, the very first evening in the parlor of the Merryman home, where several young people were congregated in honor of her arrival, Erma saw Fred’s glance rest upon the beautiful face of her friend, and then upon hers, and she read his thoughts as correctly as if they were spoken words.

“Bird of Paradise and gentle dove,” he had said in a low tone to her, and she had the intuition that “Bird of Paradise” was the ideal of the spoiled favorite of society, and not the sober plumaged dove.

Cecil Courtney was more than pleased to act as escort to one of the girls, and, seeming to prefer Erma, Fred did not object; so after the first drive and horseback expedition, all fell naturally into the places which they had filled the beginning of the visit.

Fred made no secret of his preference for the companionship of Anita, and soothed his conscience with the thought that he had been solicited by Erma to help entertain her friend, and she surely could not be so unjust as to feel aggrieved that he had taken her at her word.

The visit was over and Anita returned to her home, and Fred, true to the letter of his request, and his promise to Hilda, called to hear Erma’s decision.

“I have concluded that we are not at all suited to each other, Mr. Warfield,” said Erma when he again made his offer of marriage.

A swift look of relief crossed Fred’s expressive features, and any lingering idea that he really cared for her fled from Erma’s mind.

The next day she went to take tea at “My Lady’s Manor,” and Hilda rejoiced at heart that she was not a love-lorn damsel, but was, as usual, bright and cheerful.

“Fred seemed pleased with your friend Anita,” remarked Hilda as the two were seated in the shaded veranda while Mrs. Warfield and the children were taking their afternoon rest.

“Not pleased only, but captivated. He is certainly in love now, if never before.”

“But Erma, dear, if you care for Fred, was it wise to invite your beautiful friend to visit you at this time?”

A smile, as if the question had called up some pleasant remembrance, hovered upon the lips of Erma, and Hilda’s heart grew so light that she laughed gleefully.

“Tell me, my Erma,” she said, assuming a tragic air, “pour out the secrets of that heart into my faithful bosom.”

“I will, oh friend of my childhood!” laughed Erma; then with tears of feeling in her eyes she added, “Oh, Hilda, how grateful I am every hour since Anita’s visit that I was willing to agree with papa and mamma’s advice to invite her to visit me at this time.”

“The advice of Uncle and Aunt Merryman?” exclaimed Hilda in surprise.

“Yes, I had told them of Mr. Warfield’s flippant manner of speaking of his broken engagements, and they trembled for my happiness should I become his wife. That was our reason for inviting Anita at this time and the result is just as we expected.”

“And you are not crushed by the blow? Ah, Erma, dear, someone has taken possession of that gentle heart of yours.”

Erma’s downcast eyes and flushing cheeks confirmed her in this opinion in advance of the artless words, “Yes, Hilda, I compared him with Cecil Courtney, and he dwindled into insignificance beside that manly, reliable friend that I have known from babyhood. And oh, Hilda, Cecil has always cared for me and I did not know it! Nor did I know until Anita’s visit that I cared for him.”

“I congratulate you both from my heart; but Erma, dear, there is another side of the question to be considered. Was there not danger of your friend Anita becoming attached to Fred? You cannot deny that he is handsome and agreeable.”

“I told her that he was a known trifler, and she was not many evenings in his society until she saw that my opinion was correct. She went away perfectly fancy free, so far as Fred was concerned. I cannot answer for him.”

Erma had not long to wait to hear how Fred fared, for Anita’s second letter informed her that he had written an offer of marriage which she declined for two reasons, one being that she could not respect a man who so trifled with the affections, and the other, that after her return she promised herself in marriage to a young man worthy in every respect, absence proving that they were all in all to each other.

Winter, with its sleighing parties and other amusements, brought the young people together frequently, and Cecil Courtney was always Erma’s escort, both their families, the Lattingers, and in truth the whole neighborhood approving highly of the prospective union.

Thus the months passed, and one sweet June morning a company of dear friends were gathered in the parlor of the Merryman farmhouse to witness the marriage, after which the newly-made husband and wife went upon a wedding journey and then took up their residence in Baltimore, as happy a young couple as could be found in “Maryland, My Maryland.”

The evening of the wedding day Hilda and the children took one of their favorite walks to Dorton churchyard, and while the little ones, under the care of Chloe, gathered wild flowers that dotted the grassy enclosure, Hilda went to the resting place of Jerusha Flint.

When she reached the spot she was surprised to see a lady beside it, and more so to find in her no stranger, but Mrs. Robert De Cormis, of Philadelphia, the aunt, by marriage, of Mrs. Lura Warfield.

“No wonder that you are surprised to see me, my dear,” she said, as Hilda greeted her cordially. “I am on my way to your house to pass the night with you, if agreeable to you to entertain me at this time. The postmaster at Dorton pointed out ‘My Lady’s Manor,’ but I took a circuit from the direct way in order to visit this churchyard.”

“Nothing would give us greater pleasure than to have you with us, Mrs. De Cormis. Shall we walk, or would you prefer that I send Chloe to have the carriage come for us?”

“I prefer walking this lovely evening, and we can converse on our way. I came from Philadelphia this morning, and stopped off in Baltimore in order to see Horace Flint, the brother of Jerusha Flint. He had forwarded letters to our address which was the reason for my coming. My dear, do you know that Jerusha was my husband’s niece, the daughter of his only sister?”

“His niece!” echoed Hilda, halting to look into the face of Mrs. De Cormis; “his sister’s daughter! Then she was first cousin to Lura Warfield, wife of Cousin Paul.”

“Yes, her own cousin; Lura’s father and Jerusha’s mother were brother and sister.”

“Lura Warfield has no knowledge of it, I am sure. I have every reason to know that she never heard of Jerusha Flint until she became acquainted with me,” commented Hilda.

“No, I am sure of it. My husband never heard of Jerusha until we received the letter from her brother—Horace De Cormis Flint—which Jerusha requested should be forwarded to her grandfather. The letter proved itself, having been written by Jerusha’s mother—my sister-in-law, long since dead; and enclosed in it was my father-in-law’s reply.”

“But I cannot understand it,” exclaimed Hilda in bewilderment. “Jerusha died several years ago. Why were not her mother’s and her grandfather’s letters forwarded at that time to your husband, Mr. Robert De Cormis, instead of waiting until now?”

“Horace Flint gave the excuse that as he and his sister Jerusha had lived until past middle age without any acquaintance with their mother’s relatives he should never have made himself known were it not for the request of Jerusha.”

“I never saw Horace Flint,” remarked Hilda. “He may never have lived in this neighborhood, or if so, must have left it before my remembrance.”

“He did not mention how long he has lived in Baltimore, but just incidentally mentioned that Jerusha’s home was with him until she rented the cottage where a lady lived whose name was Ashley.”

“It is so surprising that I can as yet scarcely comprehend it,” said Hilda.

“It was the same to me, and the perusal of the two letters sent by request of Jerusha was a great grief to my husband. I will tell you of them.

“The mother of Jerusha and Horace Flint was the only daughter of Father De Cormis, and was several years older than her two brothers—Rev. Horace De Cormis, of Woodmont, Ohio, and Robert De Cormis, my husband.

“She was beautiful, but self-willed, and in spite of the threats of her father and the entreaties of her mother persisted in receiving the attentions of a young man named Archibald Flint, who was visiting Philadelphia from San Francisco.

“He was handsome, cultured and amiable, but without knowledge of business of any kind.

“To break off this intimacy Miss De Cormis was sent to a distant boarding school. Mr. Flint followed, she eloped and they were married, and for several years her parents heard no word of them. Not knowing that during this time her mother had died, and being in abject poverty, Mrs. Flint wrote to her parents from her poor home in Baltimore, beseeching them for the sake of her little daughter, Jerusha—named for Mother De Cormis—to send relief.

“My father-in-law was a man of implacable temper; he wrote commanding her never to communicate with him again. He reproached her as being the cause of her mother’s death, and added that her ingratitude and disobedience to her parents was being visited upon her children. He concluded his letter by saying that he disowned her as a daughter, had disinherited her, and had commanded his young sons, Horace and Robert, under the same penalty, never to see her or communicate with her in any way.

“In this letter he returned the one she had written; and these were the two letters which Jerusha had requested her brother Horace to send their grandfather; but he being years before in his grave, we, who are living in his old home, received them.”

“Poor Jerusha had these letters,—her mother’s to grieve over, and her grandfather’s to sour her against the world,” sighed Hilda. “Her poor young mother was severely punished for her disobedience. I wonder how long she lived after receiving that letter?”

“It must have been several years, for Horace Flint mentioned in our conversation to-day that Jerusha was ten years of age and he was six, when, after the death of their mother, they were taken by their father to the orphan asylum.”

“I wonder what became of the father?” questioned Hilda.

“We always supposed that he died years ago, our reason for thinking so being a letter found among the papers left, by Father De Cormis. It was written to him by a nurse in the hospital in Baltimore, saying that a man was lying there dangerously ill of brain fever, and in his pocket they had found a letter which, being addressed to Father De Cormis, the nurse had written to enclose it. But Horace informed me to-day that his father recovered.”

“I wonder if Father De Cormis gave any attention to the letter of the nurse?” questioned Hilda.

“I think not, nor to the one Archibald enclosed in it, which was so pathetic in its appeal that, so well as I knew my father-in-law, I wondered that he could steel his heart against it.

“It was written at the bedside of his sick wife, and in it Father De Cormis was implored to send relief to the suffering woman and her little children. The writer added that he was ill, and exhausted from watching, and from a long walk of several miles to ask assistance of his brother-in-law, Joshua Farnsworth, of ‘My Lady’s Manor,’ who was willing and able to assist him, but who had died suddenly, so that hope was extinguished.

“He wrote that he had no expectation or wish to live, but while able to write, and with a clear mind, he wished to state the incidents of his visit to his brother-in-law, Joshua Farnsworth, at ‘My Lady’s Manor,’ which, with his many anxieties and insufficient food, had brought on the fever from which he was then suffering.

“In order to make his statement plain, he dated back to his boyhood in San Francisco, where he and his sister were the only children of wealthy parents who indulged them in every wish. He grew up without knowledge of business of any kind, his parents lost their property, and this was followed by their death.

“His sister married Joshua Farnsworth, who at that time lived in San Francisco, and at the age of twenty-one she died, leaving an infant son—Reginald—whom Mr. Farnsworth placed in the care of a friend and left for Maryland and became owner of ‘My Lady’s Manor,’ now your home.

“Archibald wrote that being without home or kindred—except his little nephew, Reginald Farnsworth—he left San Francisco for Philadelphia. At this point in his letter he implored pardon—as he had done many times before—for the elopement, and added that they had wandered about seeking employment, until compelled to remain in Baltimore owing to the ill health of his wife. They were reduced to want, when he heard incidentally that his brother-in-law, Joshua Farnsworth, was living here, and he walked from Baltimore to see him, ask for help and then return the same night. He saw Mr. Farnsworth at the post-office and walked with him to ‘My Lady’s Manor’ and up to the seats upon the roof, where they could converse undisturbed. There Mr. Farnsworth agreed to take him back to Baltimore that night in his carriage and provide liberally for his family.

“He had scarcely finished speaking when he placed his hand upon his heart and fell back lifeless. The shock to Archibald was so great that for some time he sat motionless; then, realizing the danger to himself if found there alone, he resolved to escape from the house. When he reached the corridor he saw the open door in the wall of a back attic room. He crept through it into a meat room, closed it after him and went down a flight of steps and out a door which he locked and took the key, unconsciously. He walked back to Baltimore, where at the bedside of his wife he wrote the letter to Father De Cormis, closing it with a heartfelt petition for assistance, and taking all the blame of the daughter’s disobedience upon himself.

“The letter was never mailed by him, for his wife died that night. The next morning he took Jerusha and Horace to the orphan asylum, then went to the hospital, where the letter was found upon his person.”

“Does Horace Flint say that his father is yet living?” asked Hilda.

“Yes, but he has no home, but wanders about, his mind nearly a blank since his attack of brain fever.”

“It surely is Archie, the Archie who saved my life!” exclaimed Hilda. “No one in the neighborhood knows his last name, for he has forgotten it.”

“Horace mentioned that he sees him frequently, as did Jerusha, but without making themselves known to him. I think there is no doubt but he is the Archie you speak of; and, my dear, I am sure you will be surprised to know that Jerusha was the great-granddaughter of a French nobleman—the Marquis De Cormis. He was a noted officer in the French army, but owing to a sudden ebullition of temper was forced to flee from his native land.”

“Is it possible?” exclaimed Hilda. “I wonder if Jerusha knew it!”

“Yes, her mother told her of it in the letter which Jerusha sent to her brother Horace, and which Horace forwarded to Philadelphia. He also showed me a slip cut from a London newspaper of that date which gave all the details of the affair which made a refugee of the marquis.”

“Do you know what it was?”

“Yes, my father-in-law told us of it a short time before his death, and we also found a full account of it among his papers and those of the marquis, which he had kept. The substance of it was that the young Marquis De Cormis was at one time summoned from the frontier by his superior officer, and when he upon a dark, stormy night arrived at the tent of the officer, cold, wet, and exhausted from a long ride, he was severely and insultingly reprimanded for his delay in reaching there.

“The haughty spirit of the marquis could not brook the injustice from one whose social position was inferior to his, and seizing a boot which the officer had just removed, he hurled it at the head of its owner. It struck him upon the temple and he fell to the ground unconscious.

“The marquis rushed from the tent and with the help of his aides escaped to England, and from thence sailed to America, where he lived in the strictest retirement. He married in Philadelphia and my father-in-law was the only heir to the property in France, and to the title, neither of which he made effort to claim.

“In my father-in-law’s will was a request that my husband should go to France and lay claim to the property, and divide it equally between himself and Horace, which has been done.”

The two ladies had walked slowly toward “My Lady’s Manor” during the conversation, and upon reaching it found that Archie, who had come the evening before, was still there; and after Hilda had shown Mrs. De Cormis to her room she returned to have a chat with him.

“You have never told me your last name, Archie,” she said gently as she took a seat beside him. “Every person has a last name, and it would please me to know yours.”

“Archie forgets; he has tried, and tried, and cannot think,” and a look of sad perplexity came into the worn face.

“Is it Flint? Archibald Flint?”

A gleam of glad recognition came into the eyes of the wanderer, and he clasped his hands in delight.

“That is it! Archibald Flint! Archie has never heard it since he had the fever. Archibald Flint! Yes, that is Archie’s name.”

From that time he made no effort to leave “My Lady’s Manor.” He said he was tired of looking for people in the snow; he must rest. So he remained in that comfortable home, frequently saying to himself, “Archibald Flint! Yes, that is Archie’s name,” and the home of the one whose life he had saved was truly a haven of rest to his weary feet.

Lives of usefulness, peace and happiness were enjoyed by the Courtneys and their loved Mrs. Warfield; and Mrs. Ashley’s prayer had, in God’s own time and way, been fully answered; for Hilda was a consistent Christian, and her home and that of Sarah Warfield was one and the same.

THE END.

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