home. He was to follow them hither on the ensuing day.

And so it happened that once more Margie sat in her old familiar chamber
dressing for the coming of Archer Trevlyn. What should she put on? She
remembered the rose-colored dress she had laid away that dreadful night
so long ago. But now the rose-colored dreams had come back, why not wear
the rose-colored dress? She went to the wardrobe where she had locked it
away. Some of the servants had found the key out in the grass where she
had flung it that night, and fitted it to the lock. She lifted the dress,
and the beautiful pearl ornaments, and held them up to the light. The
dress was fresh and unfaded, but it was full four years behind the style!
Well, what did that matter? She had a fancy for wearing it. She wanted to
take up her life just where she had left it when she put off that dress.

To the unbounded horror of Florine, she arrayed herself in the
old-fashioned dress, and waited for her lover. And she had not long to
wait. She heard his well-remembered step in the hall, and a moment after
she was folded in his arms.

* * * * *

At Christmas there was a bridal at Harrison Park. The day was clear and
cloudless--the air almost as balmy as the air of spring. Such a Christmas
had not been known for years.

The sun shone brightly, and soft winds sighed through the leafless trees.
And Margie was married, and not a cloud came between her and the sun.

Peace and content dwelt with Archer Trevlyn and his wife in their
beautiful home. Having suffered, they knew better how to be grateful
for, and to appreciate the blessings at last bestowed upon them.

At their happy fireside there comes to sit, sometimes, of an evening, a
quiet, grave-faced man. A man whom Archer Trevlyn and his wife love as a
dear brother, prize above all other earthly friends. And beside Louis
Castrani, Leo sits, serene and contemplative, enjoying a green old age in
peace and plenty. Castrani will never marry, but sometime in the
hereafter, I think he will have his recompense.

CONSTITUTIONALLY BASHFUL.

I suppose there is no doubt but I was born with bashful tendencies, and
"What is bred in the bone, stays long in the flesh," to use the words of
some wise individual, who, like many another great genius, shunned
notoriety, and had for his _nom de plume_, Anonymous.

My mother tells me that, when an infant, I had the ridiculous habit of
turning over on my