The winter passed away quietly. The sudden absence of James Argyll caused much harmless gossip in the village. It was reported, and generally believed, that he had gone abroad, on a tour to Egypt, because Miss Argyll had jilted him. Fortunately, the arrangements for the wedding were known to but few, the feelings of the family having inclined toward a very quiet affair. The little woman who had prepared the wedding-dress was a New York milliner, who probably never learned that the wedding was not consummated.

I was very busy in the office. Mr. Argyll’s health was poor, and business had accumulated which took the most of my time. He wished me to board in his house, but I declined doing so; though, as in the old, happy times, I spent nearly all my evenings there.

Beyond the first shock, Mary did not seem to suffer from the abrupt termination of an engagement into which she had entered reluctantly. I even believed that she felt very much relieved at not being compelled to marry a cousin for the sake of securing a protector. Her gay laugh soon resumed its sweetness; her bright loveliness bloomed in the midst of winter, making roses and sunshine in the old mansion. Eleanor seemed to love to see her sister happy, gently encouraging her efforts to drive away the shadow which lingered about the house. Her own sad life must not be permitted to blight the joy of any other. I have said that my feelings toward her had changed from passionate love, through intense sympathy, into affectionate reverence. I think, now, that I felt toward her a good deal as Mary did—that nothing we could do for her, to show our silent love and sympathy, could be too much—a tender regard for her wishes and habits—a deep respect for the manner in which she bore her loss. We did not expect that she would ever again be gay or hopeful; so we did not annoy her with trying to make her so.

In the mean time a great change was taking place in my own nature, of which I was but faintly aware. I only knew that I enjoyed my hard work—that I felt resolute and strong, and that my evenings were pleasant and homelike. Further, I did not question. I wrote to my mother a guarded account of what had occurred; but I was obliged to pay her a flying visit to explain all the facts, for I dared not trust them on paper. Thus the winter glided away into sunshine and spring again.

It was the first day which had really seemed like spring. It was warm and showery; there was a smell of violets and new grass on the air. I had my office-window open, but as the afternoon wore away, and the sun shone out after an April sprinkle, I could not abide the dullness of that court of law. I felt those “blind motions of the spring,” which Tennyson attributes to trees and plants. And verily, I was in sympathy with nature. I felt verdant—and if the reader thinks that to my discredit, he is at liberty to cherish his opinion. I felt young and happy—years seemed to have dropped away from me, like a mantle of ice, leaving the flowers and freshness to appear. Not knowing whither my fancy would lead me, I walked toward the mansion, and again, as upon that autumn afternoon upon which I first saw Eleanor after her calamity, I turned my steps to the arbor which crowned the slope at the back of the lawn. Thinking of Eleanor, as I saw her then, I entered the place with a light step, and found Mary sitting, looking off on the river with a dreamy face. She blushed when she perceived who had intruded upon her reverie; I saw the warm color sweep, wave after wave, over the lovely cheek and brow, and I knew instantly the secret it betrayed. I remembered the arms which had once fallen about my neck, the tears which had rained upon my cheek from the eyes of a young girl, the eager voice which had said, “I love you Richard! I will believe nothing against you!”

Oh, how sweetly the revelation came to me then! My own heart was fully prepared to receive it. Through months I had been transferring the wealth of young, hopeful love, which craves the bliss of being shared, from the sister who was raised so far above mortal passion, to this dear semblance of her former self. My face must have expressed my happiness, for when I stood over Mary, as she sat, and turned her sweet face up toward my own, she gave but one glance before her eyes fell to hide their thought.

I kissed her, and she kissed me back again, shyly, timidly. She loved me; I was no longer mateless, but drank the cup of joy which is filled for youth. What happy children we were, when, late enough after sunset, we strolled back to the house and went to receive the paternal blessing!

I believe that hour when our betrothal was known was the best which had blessed the household since the shadow descended upon it.

In June we were married; there was no excuse for delay, and all the friends expressed themselves urgent to have the matter settled. We went, on our wedding-tour, to see my mother, with whom we had a long, delightful visit. Three years have passed since then, and in that time there have been changes—some of them very sad. Mr. Argyll died about two years since, his health never rallying from the shock which it received during those trying times. Since then, we have resided in the old mansion, and Eleanor lives with us. She is a noble woman—one of Christ’s anointed, who puts aside her own sorrow, to minister to the griefs and sufferings of others. Both Mary and myself defer a great deal to her judgment, which is calm and clear, never clouded by passion, as ours will sometimes be. We feel as if nothing evil could live where Eleanor is; she is the light and blessing of our household.

The saddest affliction which has fallen upon us since the loss of our father, is the death of Mr. Burton. Alas! he has fallen a victim, at last, to the relentless pursuit of enemies which his course in life raised up about him. The wicked feared him, and compassed his destruction. Whether he was murdered by some one whom he had detected in guilt, or by some one who feared the investigations he was making, is not known; he died of poison administered to him in his food. It wrings my heart to think that great and good soul is no more of this world. He was so active, so powerful, of such a genial temperament, it is hard to conceive him dead. We all loved him so much! Oh, if we could discover the cowardly assassin! Sometimes I wonder if it may not have been the man whom he once so mercilessly exposed. God knows—I do not. Attempts upon his life were many times made, but his acute perceptions had always, hitherto, warned him of danger.

Lenore is with us. We shall keep her until some lover comes in the future to rob us of her. She is a rare child—almost a woman now—as talented as her father, and exceedingly lovely. At present she is overwhelmed with grief, and clings to Eleanor, who is her best comforter. In our love for her we try to repay some of the debt we owe her father.