When Winter closed in, and the first snow mantled the farms of Groveland, the poor girl whom Johnny La Porte had reluctantly made his wife, closed her eyes upon this earthly panorama.

She never rallied after her return from the South. They said that she died of consumption, but her friends knew, whatever medical name might be applied to her disease at the end, that it began with a broken heart.

When it was over, and Nellie Ewing had no further need of his presence, Johnny La Porte,—who, held to his duty by the stern and oftentimes menacing eye of 'Squire Ewing, as well as by the fear which Carnes had implanted in his heart, had been as faithful and as gentle to his poor wife as it was in his worthless nature to be,—now found himself shunned in the community where he had once been petted and flattered.

There was no forgiveness in the heart of 'Squire Ewing, and his door was closed against his daughter's destroyer; for such the Grovelanders, in spite of his tardy reparation, considered Johnny La Porte.

He attempted to resume his old life in Groveland; but 'Squire Ewing was beloved in the community, and when he turned his back upon Johnny La Porte his neighbors followed his example.

Nowhere among those cordial Grovelanders was there a place or a welcome for the man who had blighted the life of Nellie Ewing, and so he drifted away from Groveland, to sink lower and lower in the scale of manhood—dissolute, brainless, a cumberer of the ground.

Nellie Ewing's sad death had its effect upon thoughtless little Mamie Rutger. She was shocked into sobriety, and her grief at the loss of her friend brought with it shame for her own folly, and then repentance and a sincere effort to be a more dutiful daughter and a better woman.

Mrs. Ballou put her threat into execution after mature deliberation. She put her daughter Grace into a convent school, and then, to make assurance doubly sure, she rented her fine farm, and took up her abode near that of the good sisters who had charge of her daughter's mental and spiritual welfare.

As for the Little Adelphi and Fred Brookhouse, they both lost prestige after coming under the severe scrutiny of the police. One iniquitous discovery concerning the theatre and its manager led to more; and before another Spring visited the Sunny South, the Little Adelphi and Fred Brookhouse had vanished together, the one transformed into an excellent green grocers' establishment, and the other into a strolling disciple of chance.

Amy Holmes clung to the Little Adelphi to the last; and, after its final fall, she, too, wandered away from New Orleans, carrying with her, her secret which had been so serviceable a weapon in the hands of Carnes, but which he never knew.

It is written in the book of Fate that I shall pay one more visit to Trafton.

This time there is no gloom, no plotting; there are no wrongs to right. The time is the fairest of the year, May time, and the occasion is a joyous one.

Doctor Denham, funny, talkative, and lovable as ever; Carnes, bubbling over with whimsical Hibernianisms; Gerry Brown, handsome and in high spirits; and myself, quite as happy as are the rest; all step down upon the platform at the Trafton depot, and one after another grasp the outstretched hands of Harvey James, whom we all will call Jim Long in spite of ourselves, and then receive the hearty welcome of the Harris's, senior and junior, and many other Traftonites.

We have come to witness the end of our Trafton drama, viz., the marriage of Louise Barnard and Carl Bethel.

Bethel is as happy as mortals are ever permitted to be and as handsome as a demigod. There are left no traces of his former suffering; the wound inflicted by a hired assassin has healed, leaving him as strong as of old, and only the scar upon his breast remains to tell the story of the long days when his life hung by a thread.

Of the blow that was aimed at his honor, there remains not even a scar. The plot of the grave robbers has recoiled upon their own heads. Dr. Carl Bethel is to-day the leading physician, and the most popular man in Trafton.

"I have waited for this event," says Harvey James, as we sit chatting together an hour before the marriage. "I have waited to see them married, and after this is over, I am going West."

"Not out of our reach, I hope!"

"No; I have still the surplus of the price of my farm; enough to buy me a ranche and stock it finely. I mean to build a roomy cabin and fit it up so as to accomodate guests. Then by-and-by, when you want another Summer's vacation, you and Carnes shall come to my ranche. I have talked over my plans with Bethel and his bride, and they have already accepted my hospitality for next year's vacation. I anticipate some years of genuine comfort yet, for I have long wanted to explore the West, and try life as a ranchman, but I would not leave Trafton while Brooks continued to flourish in it. Do you mean to accept my invitation, sir?"

"I do, indeed; and as for Carnes, you'll get him to come easier than you can persuade him to leave."

"Nothing could suit me better."

Louise Barnard made a lovely bride, and there never was a merrier or more harmonious wedding party.

During the evening, however, the fair bride approached Jim—or Harvey James—and myself, as we stood a little aloof from the others. There was the least bit of a frown upon her face, too, as she said:

"I can't help feeling cross with you, sir detective. Somebody must bear the blame of not bringing Adele Lowenstein to my wedding. I wrote her that I should take her presence as a sign that she fully believed in the sincerity of my friendship, and that Trafton would thus be assured of my entire faith in her, and yet, she declined."

I do not know what to say in reply. So I drop my eyes and mentally anathematize my own stupidity.

"Do you know why she refused to come?" she persists.

While I still hesitate, Jim—I must say Jim—touches my arm.

"Your delicacy is commendable," he says in my ear. "But would it not be better to tell Mrs. Bethel the truth, than to allow her to think the woman she has befriended, ungrateful?"

I feel that he is wise and I am foolish; so I lift my eyes to her face and say:

"Mrs. Bethel, Adele Lowenstein had one secret that you never guessed. If you had seen her, as I saw her, at the bedside of your husband, on the day after the attempt upon his life, you, of all women in the world, would understand best why she is not at your wedding to-day."

She utters a startled exclamation, and her eyes turn involuntarily to where Carl Bethel stands, tall and splendid, among his guests; then a look of pitying tenderness comes into her face.

"Poor Adele!" she says softly, and turns slowly away.

"Adele Lowenstein is not the woman to forget easily," I say to my companion. "But there," and I nod toward Gerry Brown, "is the man who would willingly teach her the lesson."

"Then," says Jim, contentedly, "it is only a question of time. Gerry Brown is bound to win."

THE END.