He had not become a great man; he had not grown rich; he had not forgotten the scenes and friends of his youth: he had not fulfilled any one of the Doctor’s old predictions. But in his useful, patient, unknown visiting of poor men’s homes; and in his watching of sick beds; and in his daily knowledge of the gentleness and goodness flowering the bye-paths of the world, not to be trodden down beneath the heavy foot of poverty, but springing up, elastic, in its track, and making its way beautiful; he had better learned and proved, in each succeeding year, the truth of his old faith. The manner of his life, though quiet and remote, had shown him how often men still entertained angels, unawares, as in the olden time; and how the most unlikely forms – even some that were mean and ugly to the view, and poorly clad – became irradiated by the couch of sorrow, want, and pain, and changed to ministering spirits with a glory round their heads.

He lived to better purpose on the altered battle-ground perhaps, than if he had contended restlessly in more ambitious lists; and he was happy with his wife, dear Grace.

And Marion. Had he forgotten her?

“The time has flown, dear Grace,” he said, “since then;” they had been talking of that night; “and yet it seems a long long while ago. We count by changes and events within us. Not by years.”

“Yet we have years to count by, too, since Marion was with us,” returned Grace. “Six times, dear husband, counting to-night as one, we have sat here on her birth-day, and spoken together of that happy return, so eagerly expected and so long deferred. Ah when will it be! When will it be!”

Her husband attentively observed her, as the tears collected in her eyes; and drawing nearer, said:

“But Marion told you, in that farewell letter which she left for you upon your table, love, and which you read so often, that years must pass away before it could be. Did she not?”

She took a letter from her breast, and kissed it, and said “Yes.”

“That through those intervening years, however happy she might be, she would look forward to the time when you would meet again, and all would be made clear: and prayed you, trustfully and hopefully to do the same. The letter runs so, does it not, my dear?”

“Yes, Alfred.”

“And every other letter she has written since?”

“Except the last – some months ago – in which she spoke of you, and what you then knew, and what I was to learn to-night.”

He looked towards the sun, then fast declining, and said that the appointed time was sunset.

“Alfred!” said Grace, laying her hand upon his shoulder earnestly, “there is something in this letter – this old letter, which you say I read so often – that I have never told you. But to-night, dear husband, with that sunset drawing near, and all our life seeming to soften and become hushed with the departing day, I cannot keep it secret.”

“What is it, love?”

“When Marion went away, she wrote me, here, that you had once left her a sacred trust to me, and that now she left you, Alfred, such a trust in my hands: praying and beseeching me, as I loved her, and as I loved you, not to reject the affection she believed (she knew, she said) you would transfer to me when the new wound was healed, but to encourage and return it.”

“ – And make me a proud, and happy man again, Grace. Did she say so?”

“She meant, to make myself so blest and honored in your love,” was his wife’s answer, as he held her in his arms.

“Hear me, my dear!” he said. – “No. Hear me so!” – and as he spoke, he gently laid the head she had raised, again upon his shoulder. “I know why I have never heard this passage in the letter, until now. I know why no trace of it ever shewed itself in any word or look of yours at that time. I know why Grace, although so true a friend to me, was hard to win to be my wife. And knowing it, my own! I know the priceless value of the heart I gird within my arms, and thank GOD for the rich possession!”

She wept, but not for sorrow, as he pressed her to his heart. After a brief space, he looked down at the child, who was sitting at their feet, playing with a little basket of flowers, and bade her look how golden and how red the sun was.

“Alfred,” said Grace, raising her head quickly at these words. “The sun is going down. You have not forgotten what I am to know before it sets.”

“You are to know the truth of Marion’s history, my love,” he answered.

“All the truth,” she said, imploringly. “Nothing veiled from me, any more. That was the promise. Was it not?”

“It was,” he answered.

“Before the sun went down on Marion’s birth-day. And you see it, Alfred? It is sinking fast.”

He put his arm about her waist; and, looking steadily into her eyes, rejoined,

“That truth is not reserved so long for me to tell, dear Grace. It is to come from other lips.”

“From other lips!” she faintly echoed.

“Yes. I know your constant heart, I know how brave you are, I know that to you a word of preparation is enough. You have said, truly, that the time is come. It is. Tell me that you have present fortitude to bear a trial – a surprise – a shock: and the messenger is waiting at the gate.”

“What messenger?” she said. “And what intelligence does he bring?”

“I am pledged,” he answered her, preserving his steady look, “to say no more. Do you think you understand me?”

“I am afraid to think,” she said.

There was that emotion in his face, despite its steady gaze, which frightened her. Again she hid her own face on his shoulder, trembling, and entreated him to pause – a moment.

“Courage, my wife! When you have firmness to receive the messenger, the messenger is waiting at the gate. The sun is setting on Marion’s birth-day. Courage, courage, Grace!”

She raised her head, and, looking at him, told him she was ready. As she stood, and looked upon him going away, her face was so like Marion’s as it had been in her later days at home, that it was wonderful to see. He took the child with him. She called her back – she bore the lost girl’s name – and pressed her to her bosom. The little creature, being released again, sped after him, and Grace was left alone.

She knew not what she dreaded, or what hoped; but remained there, motionless, looking at the porch by which they had disappeared.

Ah! what was that, emerging from its shadow; standing on its threshold! that figure, with its white garments rustling in the evening air; its head laid down upon her father’s breast, and pressed against it to his loving heart! Oh, God! was it a vision that came bursting from the old man’s arms, and with a cry, and with a waving of its hands, and with a wild precipitation of itself upon her in its boundless love, sank down in her embrace!

“Oh, Marion, Marion! Oh, my sister! Oh, my heart’s dear love! Oh, joy and happiness unutterable, so to meet again!”

It was no dream, no phantom conjured up by hope and fear, but Marion, sweet Marion! So beautiful, so happy, so unalloyed by care and trial, so elevated and exalted in her loveliness, that as the setting sun shone brightly on her upturned face, she might have been a spirit visiting the earth upon some healing mission.

Clinging to her sister, who had dropped upon a seat, and bent down over her: and smiling through her tears, and kneeling close before her, with both arms twining round her, and never turning for an instant from her face: and with the glory of the setting sun upon her brow, and with the soft tranquillity of evening gathering around them: Marion at length broke silence; her voice, so calm, low, clear, and pleasant, well-tuned to the time.

“When this was my dear home, Grace, as it will be now, again – ”

“Stay, my sweet love! A moment! Oh Marion, to hear you speak again.”

She could not bear the voice she loved so well, at first.

“When this was my dear home, Grace, as it will be now, again, I loved him from my soul. I loved him most devotedly. I would have died for him, though I was so young. I never slighted his affection in my secret breast, for one brief instant. It was far beyond all price to me. Although it is so long ago, and past and gone, and everything is wholly changed, I could not bear to think that you, who love so well, should think I did not truly love him once. I never loved him better, Grace, than when he left this very scene upon this very day. I never loved him better, dear one, than I did that night when I left here.”

Her sister, bending over her, could only look into her face, and hold her fast.

“But he had gained, unconsciously,” said Marion, with a gentle smile, “another heart, before I knew that I had one to give him. That heart – yours, my sister – was so yielded up, in all its other tenderness, to me; was so devoted, and so noble; that it plucked its love away, and kept its secret from all eyes but mine – Ah! what other eyes were quickened by such tenderness and gratitude! – and was content to sacrifice itself to me. But I knew something of its depths. I knew the struggle it had made. I knew its high, inestimable worth to him, and his appreciation of it, let him love me as he would. I knew the debt I owed it. I had its great example every day before me. What you had done for me, I knew that I could do, Grace, if I would, for you. I never laid my head down on my pillow, but I prayed with tears to do it. I never laid my head down on my pillow, but I thought of Alfred’s own words, on the day of his departure, and how truly he had said (for I knew that, by you) that there were victories gained every day, in struggling hearts, to which these fields of battle were as nothing. Thinking more and more upon the great endurance cheerfully sustained, and never known or cared for, that there must be every day and hour, in that great strife of which he spoke, my trial seemed to grow light and easy: and He who knows our hearts, my dearest, at this moment, and who knows there is no drop of bitterness or grief – of anything but unmixed happiness – in mine, enabled me to make the resolution that I never would be Alfred’s wife. That he should be my brother, and your husband, if the course I took could bring that happy end to pass; but that I never would (Grace, I then loved him dearly, dearly!) be his wife!”

“Oh, Marion! oh, Marion!”

“I had tried to seem indifferent to him;” and she pressed her sister’s face against her own; “but that was hard, and you were always his true advocate. I had tried to tell you of my resolution, but you would never hear me; you would never understand me. The time was drawing near for his return. I felt that I must act, before the daily intercourse between us was renewed. I knew that one great pang, undergone at that time, would save a lengthened agony to all of us. I knew that if I went away then, that end must follow which has followed, and which has made us both so happy, Grace! I wrote to good Aunt Martha, for a refuge in her house: I did not then tell her all, but something of my story, and she freely promised it. While I was contesting that step with myself, and with my love of you, and home, Mr. Warden, brought here by an accident, became, for some time, our companion.”

“I have sometimes feared of late years, that this might have been,” exclaimed her sister, and her countenance was ashy-pale. “You never loved him – and you married him in your self-sacrifice to me!”

“He was then,” said Marion, drawing her sister closer to her, “on the eve of going secretly away for a long time. He wrote to me, after leaving here; told me what his condition and prospects really were; and offered me his hand. He told me he had seen I was not happy in the prospect of Alfred’s return. I believe he thought my heart had no part in that contract; perhaps thought I might have loved him once, and did not then; perhaps thought that when I tried to seem indifferent, I tried to hide indifference – I cannot tell. But I wished that you should feel me wholly lost to Alfred – hopeless to him – dead. Do you understand me, love?”

Her sister looked into her face, attentively. She seemed in doubt.

“I saw Mr. Warden, and confided in his honor; charged him with my secret, on the eve of his and my departure. He kept it. Do you understand me, dear?”

Grace looked confusedly upon her. She scarcely seemed to hear.

“My love, my sister!” said Marion, “recall your thoughts a moment: listen to me. Do not look so strangely on me. There are countries, dearest, where those who would abjure a misplaced passion, or would strive against some cherished feeling of their hearts and conquer it, retire into a hopeless solitude, and close the world against themselves and worldly loves and hopes for ever. When women do so, they assume that name which is so dear to you and me, and call each other Sisters. But there may be sisters, Grace, who, in the broad world out of doors, and underneath its free sky, and in its crowded places and among its busy life, and trying to assist and cheer it and to do some good, – learn the same lesson; and, with hearts still fresh and young, and open to all happiness and means of happiness, can say the battle is long past, the victory long won. And such a one am I! You understand me now?”

Still she looked fixedly upon her, and made no reply.

“Oh Grace, dear Grace,” said Marion, clinging yet more tenderly and fondly to that breast from which she had been so long exiled, “if you were not a happy wife and mother – if I had no little namesake here – if Alfred, my kind brother, were not your own fond husband – from whence could I derive the ecstasy I feel to-night! But as I left here, so I have returned. My heart has known no other love, my hand has never been bestowed apart from it, I am still your maiden sister: unmarried, unbetrothed: your own old loving Marion, in whose affection you exist alone, and have no partner, Grace!”

She understood her now. Her face relaxed; sobs came to her relief; and falling on her neck, she wept and wept, and fondled her as if she were a child again.

When they were more composed, they found that the Doctor, and his sister good Aunt Martha, were standing near at hand, with Alfred.

“This is a weary day for me,” said good Aunt Martha, smiling through her tears, as she embraced her nieces; “for I lose my dear companion in making you all happy; and what can you give me in return for my Marion?”

“A converted brother,” said the Doctor.

“That’s something, to be sure,” retorted Aunt Martha, “in such a farce as – ”

“No, pray don’t,” said the Doctor, penitently.

“Well, I won’t,” replied Aunt Martha. “But I consider myself ill-used. I don’t know what’s to become of me without my Marion, after we have lived together half-a-dozen years.”

“You must come and live here, I suppose,” replied the Doctor. “We sha’n’t quarrel now, Martha.”

“Or get married, Aunt,” said Alfred.

“Indeed,” returned the old lady, “I think it might be a good speculation if I were to set my cap at Michael Warden, who, I hear, is come home much the better for his absence, in all respects. But as I knew him when he was a boy, and I was not a very young woman then, perhaps he mightn’t respond. So I’ll make up my mind to go and live with Marion, when she marries, and until then (it will not be very long, I dare say) to live alone. What do you say, Brother?”

“I’ve a great mind to say it’s a ridiculous world altogether, and there’s nothing serious in it,” observed the poor old Doctor.

“You might take twenty affidavits of it if you chose, Anthony,” said his sister; “but nobody would believe you with such eyes as those.”

“It’s a world full of hearts,” said the Doctor; hugging his younger daughter, and bending across her to hug Grace – for he couldn’t separate the sisters; “and a serious world, with all its folly – even with mine, which was enough to have swamped the whole globe; and a world on which the sun never rises, but it looks upon a thousand bloodless battles that are some set-off against the miseries and wickedness of Battle-Fields; and a world we need be careful how we libel, Heaven forgive us, for it is a world of sacred mysteries, and its Creator only knows what lies beneath the surface of His lightest image!”

You would not be the better pleased with my rude pen, if it dissected and laid open to your view the transports of this family, long severed and now reunited. Therefore, I will not follow the poor Doctor through his humbled recollection of the sorrow he had had, when Marion was lost to him; nor will I tell how serious he had found that world to be, in which some love deep-anchored, is the portion of all human creatures; nor how such a trifle as the absence of one little unit in the great absurd account, had stricken him to the ground. Nor how, in compassion for his distress, his sister had, long ago, revealed the truth to him, by slow degrees; and brought him to the knowledge of the heart of his self-banished daughter, and to that daughter’s side.

Nor how Alfred Heathfield had been told the truth, too, in the course of that then current year; and Marion had seen him, and had promised him, as her brother, that on her birth-day, in the evening, Grace should know it from her lips at last.

“I beg your pardon, Doctor,” said Mr. Snitchey, looking into the orchard, “but have I liberty to come in?”

Without waiting for permission, he came straight to Marion, and kissed her hand, quite joyfully.

“If Mr. Craggs had been alive, my dear Miss Marion,” said Mr. Snitchey, “he would have had great interest in this occasion. It might have suggested to him, Mr. Alfred, that our life is not too easy, perhaps; that, taken altogether, it will bear any little smoothing we can give it; but Mr. Craggs was a man who could endure to be convinced, Sir. He was always open to conviction. If he were open to conviction now, I – this is weakness. Mrs. Snitchey, my dear,” – at his summons that lady appeared from behind the door, “you are among old friends.”

Mrs. Snitchey having delivered her congratulations, took her husband aside.

“One moment, Mr. Snitchey,” said that lady. “It is not in my nature to rake up the ashes of the departed.”

“No my dear,” returned her husband.

“Mr. Craggs is – ”

“Yes, my dear, he is deceased,” said Mr. Snitchey.

“But I ask you if you recollect,” pursued his wife, “that evening of the ball. I only ask you that. If you do; and if your memory has not entirely failed you, Mr. Snitchey; and if you are not absolutely in your dotage; I ask you to connect this time with that – to remember how I begged and prayed you, on my knees – ”

“Upon your knees, my dear?” said Mr. Snitchey.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Snitchey, confidently, “and you know it – to beware of that man – to observe his eye – and now to tell me whether I was right, and whether at that moment he knew secrets which he didn’t choose to tell.”

“Mrs. Snitchey,” returned her husband, in her ear, “Madam. Did you ever observe anything in my eye?”

“No,” said Mrs. Snitchey, sharply. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Because, Ma’am, that night,” he continued, twitching her by the sleeve, “it happens that we both knew secrets which we didn’t choose to tell, and both knew just the same, professionally. And so the less you say about such things the better, Mrs. Snitchey; and take this as a warning to have wiser and more charitable eyes another time. Miss Marion, I brought a friend of yours along with me. Here! Mistress.”

Poor Clemency, with her apron to her eyes, came slowly in, escorted by her husband; the latter doleful with the presentiment, that if she abandoned herself to grief, the Nutmeg Grater was done for.

“Now, Mistress,” said the lawyer, checking Marion as she ran towards her, and interposing himself between them, “what’s the matter with you?”

“The matter!” cried poor Clemency.

When, looking up in wonder, and in indignant remonstrance, and in the added emotion of a great roar from Mr. Britain, and seeing that sweet face so well-remembered close before her, she stared, sobbed, laughed, cried, screamed, embraced her, held her fast, released her, fell on Mr. Snitchey and embraced him (much to Mrs. Snitchey’s indignation), fell on the Doctor and embraced him, fell on Mr. Britain and embraced him, and concluded by embracing herself, throwing her apron over her head, and going into hysterics behind it.

A stranger had come into the orchard, after Mr. Snitchey, and had remained apart, near the gate, without being observed by any of the group; for they had little spare attention to bestow, and that had been monopolised by the ecstasies of Clemency. He did not appear to wish to be observed, but stood alone, with downcast eyes; and there was an air of dejection about him (though he was a gentleman of a gallant appearance) which the general happiness rendered more remarkable.

None but the quick eyes of Aunt Martha, however, remarked him at all; but almost as soon as she espied him, she was in conversation with him. Presently, going to where Marion stood with Grace and her little namesake, she whispered something in Marion’s ear, at which she started, and appeared surprised; but soon recovering from her confusion, she timidly approached the stranger, in Aunt Martha’s company, and engaged in conversation with him too.

“Mr. Britain,” said the lawyer, putting his hand in his pocket, and bringing out a legal-looking document, while this was going on, “I congratulate you. You are now the whole and sole proprietor of that freehold tenement, at present occupied and held by yourself as a licensed tavern, or house of public entertainment, and commonly called or known by the sign of the Nutmeg Grater. Your wife lost one house, through my client Mr. Michael Warden; and now gains another. I shall have the pleasure of canvassing you for the county, one of these fine mornings.”

“Would it make any difference in the vote if the sign was altered, Sir?” asked Britain.

“Not in the least,” replied the lawyer.

“Then,” said Mr. Britain, handing him back the conveyance, “just clap in the words, ‘and Thimble,’ will you be so good; and I’ll have the two mottoes painted up in the parlour, instead of my wife’s portrait.”

“And let me,” said a voice behind them; it was the stranger’s – Michael Warden’s; “let me claim the benefit of those inscriptions. Mr. Heathfield and Dr. Jeddler, I might have deeply wronged you both. That I did not, is no virtue of my own. I will not say that I am six years wiser than I was, or better. But I have known, at any rate, that term of selfreproach. I can urge no reason why you should deal gently with me. I abused the hospitality of this house; and learnt my own demerits, with a shame I never have forgotten, yet with some profit too I would fain hope, from one,” he glanced at Marion, “to whom I made my humble supplication for forgiveness, when I knew her merit and my deep unworthiness. In a few days I shall quit this place for ever. I entreat your pardon. Do as you would be done by! Forget, and forgive!”

Time – from whom I had the latter portion of this story, and with whom I have the pleasure of a personal acquaintance of some five and thirty years’ duration – informed me, leaning easily upon his scythe, that Michael Warden never went away again, and never sold his house, but opened it afresh, maintained a golden mean of hospitality, and had a wife, the pride and honor of that country-side, whose name was Marion. But as I have observed that Time confuses facts occasionally, I hardly know what weight to give to his authority.