Mrs. Gordon never appeared again in the gay world. The reason was a mystery that no one could explain. The rich furniture, the statues and pictures that had made her home a palace, were quietly sold, and the rooms filled with everything essential to comfort, without the slightest approach to former profuse luxuriousness. Plain carriages and less spirited horses, took the place of her former superb equipage. The grounds still bloomed with flowers, the hot-houses teemed with fruit, but Ada seldom tasted the one or inhaled the other. She was far too busy and useful for the indulgence, even of her most harmless love of the beautiful. She had literally gone out by the wayside and hedges, forcing the poor to come in and partake of her hospitality. For months Jacob Strong might have been observed, side by side with his mistress, threading the alleys, searching in attic chambers, for objects of just charity. Old men and women, generally of the educated poor, who could not work, and were too proud for begging, soon became the inmates of those splendid saloons. Any day, when you passed that mansion, some old lady in her snow-white cap might be seen looking quietly from the casement, while others strolled in the gardens, or amused themselves in the marble vestibule. Occasionally Jacob Strong might be seen loitering about the door, but all the servants were changed. The very atmosphere of the place seemed that of another region. No French maids, no liveried footman, lent a foreign and meretricious air to the dwelling now. In the place of former splendor, gay tumult and heartless display, reigned a calm and pure tranquillity. Every face was serene; every being you met looked soberly content.

In truth, the little paradise—for still the beautiful reigned throughout that dwelling—did indeed at times seem haunted by an angel; for flitting about, now in the sunshine of the garden, now in the more bland sunshine of her mother's smile, Julia grew in beauty and in all those sweet qualities which are the essence of loveliness. If painful memories sometimes haunted the maiden—if a prison cell and an old man blessing her with his last breath—a tumult of people, and wild shouts that seemed terrible to her, even then, sometimes broke upon her in the still morning, or the more stilly night, it was but a passing cloud; and with tears in her eyes, she would thank God, that those who loved that good old man had been saved the crowning horror of his death.

And the old grandmother—it should have been no cause of grief when the meek woman went softly to sleep one night and awoke with her husband in heaven. It was the home she had pined for even when surrounded closest by her children's love. They laid her by his side in Greenwood, with many tears, for though certain that happiness awaits the departed, those who are left must mourn, or they cannot have loved.

Now we have one scene to describe, and our story is done. It was three years after the death of old Mr. Wilcox, and once more the home of Ada Leicester was lighted up for guests. The boudoir which we have so often mentioned was redolent with flowers, and the pure muslin curtains floated to and fro in the summer air that came balmily through the open windows. Beyond, was the bed-chamber. You could hear the rustle of light footsteps on the India matting, and see the gleam of snowy drapery, waving like a cloud in the distance. All was exquisitely chaste and full of simplicity. How unlike the gorgeous luxuriousness of those rooms, in other days!

The rooms filled, not with guests such as had made them brilliant once, but with persons who may interest the reader far more. The first person whom Jacob Strong ushered into the boudoir, was his own sister, Mrs. Gray. Never in her whole life had the good lady appeared so radiantly happy. Her gown of silver grey silk rustled cheerfully as she walked, white satin ribbons knotted the lace cap under her chin and floated in glistening streamers adown the white muslin kerchief folded over her bosom. A pair of gloves—man's size, but white as snow—were neatly buttoned about her plump wrists. This, with her beautiful grey hair, her cheeks softly red like a mellow winter apple, and the double chin that had taken a triple fold since we last saw her, would have warmed your heart had you been a guest at that house, as she was. Then there was a quiet little old lady in black, who glided in like a shadow, and was completely lost behind the rotundity of Mrs. Gray's person; and another gentle creature clothed in black also, but of a beauty that made your heart ache, the sweet face was so touchingly sad, the countenance so waxen in its whiteness, and every movement was so painfully shy. It seemed as if the poor young creature might turn and flee, like a frightened doe, if an unfamiliar eye were turned upon her. Reader, these two persons are no strangers to you; they are the mother and the victim of William Leicester. Poor Florence, her mind was shaken yet, but not as it had been. She was gentle and mournfully sad, but not insane. Still it was a painful thing to see a creature so young, with that utter hopelessness of countenance. She sat down close to the little, aged woman, and looked up in her face, with meek, trusting eyes, holding shyly to a fold of her dress all the while. Not even the sunny smile of Mrs. Gray, could win a gleam of joy to those large eyes. Then there was a large woman with black eyes and an abundance of raven hair, that kept bustling in and out of the bed-chamber with a look of happy importance, that made her strong features quite handsome. You would hardly have recognized the prison woman, in that neatly clad rosy cheeked female, the expression and whole appearance was so changed. Home and care had done everything for her, and at this time she was housekeeper in the mansion. Had you asked her character of the old ladies who found an asylum there, the account would have astonished you. After all, where real strength of character exists, there is always hope of reformation. It is your weak sinner for whom one despairs the most. As this woman passed through the room, she always turned her eyes, beaming with fondness, on a little boy, half concealed by the flow of Mrs. Gray's gown. It was quite wonderful how much that gown could shelter; and the mother spoke in that glance eloquently as ever love was uttered in words.

Then there was Jacob Strong himself, with a new coat in its first gloss, too short for his long arms, and cut after a fashion of his own, which made him look more round-shouldered and ungainly than ever. A buff vest, and gloves of a deeper yellow, gave an air of peculiar smartness to his costume, which bespoke some very important occasion; for it was not often that Jacob gave way to weaknesses regarding his toilet; and when he did, the effect was indisputably striking.

Besides the persons we have mentioned, were a score of nice aged women in snowy caps and chintz dresses, looking the very pictures of contented old age, who whispered cosily together, and watched a door that led to the stairs with the greatest interest, as if some very important person was expected to enter from that way.

Their impatience was gratified at last; for a clergyman with flowing robes came sweeping through, escorted by Jacob Strong, who had been wandering about the dim vestibule during the last ten minutes. Directly after, the room opposite was flung open, and Robert Otis came forth, leading a fair young girl by the hand. There was something heavenly in the loveliness of that gentle bride, as the blush deepened and faded away beneath the gossamer sheen of her veil.

Jacob Strong rubbed his yellow gloves softly together, as he gazed upon her; and the rustle of Mrs. Gray's dress was absolutely eloquent of all the restless pride she felt in seeing the two beings she most loved united for ever.

Of all the persons present, Ada Leicester alone was sad. She remembered her own marriage, and the shadow of many a painful thought swept across her face, as the solemn benediction was uttered over her child.

When the ceremony was complete Florence arose, and quietly placing a folded paper in the lap of the bride, stole away, as if terrified by the strange eyes that followed her movement. Julia took up the paper, half unfolded it, and then, with a blush and a smile, placed it in the hand of her young husband. With that paper Florence had conveyed two thirds of her fine property to the daughter of William Leicester—the man who had swept every blossom from the pathway of her own life.

THE END.