e is, Ryan!" her father said, as he saw her through the open
door. "Here she is! Let her come out and answer for herself."

Francis Ryan turned, and Lily, shy and trembling, went out in obedience
to Mr. Danforth's call. Perhaps her hesitation and timidity became her
better than self-confidence; anyhow, Francis thought that he had never
seen her look so pretty as she did at this moment, when she came
bashfully towards him under the old cedar with a pensive look on her
young face.

"He has come to ask me for you, Lily," said Mr. Danforth, glowing with
satisfaction. "He has my consent, and now you must give him your
answer."

Then the head of the family went off to find Mary and tell her the
joyful news, and Francis and Lily stood under the dark cedar-boughs
together hand in hand. She was too happy to know exactly what he was
saying; she only knew that she had managed to say what was required of
her, and that life had suddenly changed from gloom to glory.

September had set in, and only a few stragglers had come back to London.
Most people were still lingering on the sea-shore or among the breezy
hills; but one young woman, standing at the window of a back-room in All
Saints' Street, was looking as happy as if she loved the view of
chimney-pots and smoky tiles.

It was the last day of Elsie's single life. The bell was just beginning
to chime for five o'clock service; in the next room Mrs. Lennard and
Miss Saxon were closing the lids of the boxes and looking round to see
that nothing had been forgotten or left out. And Elsie, standing alone
in her old place, was watching the sunset shining on these crowded
house-roofs for the last time. Meta's manuscript, carefully tied up, was
lying on the little table near. As Elsie's fingers rested on the roll,
her thoughts went straying back to that evening in the early spring when
she had stood here to fight her battle in silence.

It was not until that battle had been fought and won that she had known
the guidance of the vanished hand; and now, in the golden quietness of
this hour, she recalled some lines from "In Memoriam" which seemed to
come with new freshness of meaning to her mind:--

"In vain shalt thou, or any, call
The spirits from their golden day,
Except, like them, thou too canst say,
My spirit is at peace with all."

Robert and Bertha were forgiven, although the old home had passed into
the hands of strangers, and the old haunts would know her