Then the brother and sister departed hastily from the house, and left Judge Pyncheon sitting in the old house of his forefathers.

Phoebe and Holgrave were in the house together when the brother and sister returned, and Holgrave had told her of the judge’s sudden death.  Then, in that hour so full of doubt and awe, the one miracle was wrought, without which every human existence is a blank, and the bliss which makes all things true, beautiful, and holy shone around this youth and maiden.  They were conscious of nothing sad or old.

Presently the voices of Clifford and Hepzibah were heard at the door, and when they entered Clifford appeared the stronger of the two.

“It is our own little Phoebe!  Ah!  And Holgrave with her!” he exclaimed.  “I thought of you both as we came down the street.  And so the flower of Eden has bloomed even in this old, darksome house to-day.”

A week after the judge’s death news came of the death of his son, and so Hepzibah became rich, and so did Clifford, and so did Phoebe, and, through her, Holgrave.

It was far too late for the formal vindication of Clifford’s character to be worth the trouble and anguish involved.  For the truth was that the uncle had died by a sudden stroke, and the judge, knowing this, had let suspicion and condemnation fall on Clifford, only because he had himself been busy among the dead man’s papers, destroying a later will made out in Clifford’s favour, and because it was found the papers had been disturbed, to avert suspicion from the real offender he had let the blame fall on his cousin.

Clifford was content with the love of his sister and Phoebe and Holgrave.  The good opinion of society was not worth publicly reclaiming.

It was Holgrave who discovered the missing document the judge had set his heart on obtaining.

“And now, my dearest Phoebe,” said Holgrave, “how will it please you to assume the name of Maule?  In this long drama of wrong and retribution I represent the old wizzard, and am probably as much of a wizzard as ever my ancestor was.”

Then, with Hepzibah and Clifford, Phoebe and Holgrave left the old house for ever.

* * * * *

ROBERT HICHENS

The Garden of Allah

The son of a clergyman, Mr. Robert Smythe Hichens, born at Speldhurst, Kent, England, on November 14, 1864, was originally intended to follow a musical career, but after some years abandoned music for journalism.  His first long novel was written and published at the age of seventeen.  It attracted little or no attention, and has long been out of print.  A trip to Egypt in 1893 resulted in a burning desire to become a novelist, and his brilliant satire, “The Green Carnation,” followed.  The book was written in a month, and at once established its author’s name and fame.  “The Garden of Allah,” of all Mr. Hichens’ works