Thus the story ended, as romances so begun generally do end.  There came a summer twilight, when Gilbert Fenton found himself once more upon the dewy lawn under the walnut-trees alone with Marian Nowell.  He repeated his appeal in warmer, fonder tones than before, and with a kind of implied certainty that the answer must be a favourable one.  It was something like taking the fortress by storm.  He had his arm round her slim waist, his lips upon her brow, before she had time to consider what her answer ought to be.

“My darling, I cannot live without you!” he said, in a low passionate voice.  “Tell me that you love me.”

She disengaged herself gently from his embrace, and stood a little way from him, with shy, downcast eyelids.

“I think I do,” she said slowly.

“That is quite enough, Marian!” cried Gilbert, joyously.  “I knew you were destined to be my wife.”

He drew her hand through his arm and took her back to the house, where the Captain was sitting in his favourite arm-chair by the window, with a reading lamp on the little table by his side, and the Times newspaper in his hand.

“Your niece has brought you a nephew, sir,” said Gilbert.

The Captain threw aside his paper, and stretched out both his hands to the young man.

“My dear boy, I cannot tell you how happy this makes me!” he cried.  “Didn’t I promise you that all would go well if you were patient?  My little girl is wise enough to know the value of a good man’s love.”

“I am very grateful, uncle George,” faltered Marian, taking shelter behind the Captain’s chair; “only I don’t feel that I am worthy of so much thought.”

“Nonsense, child; not worthy!  You are the best girl in Christendom, and will make the brightest and truest wife that ever made a man’s home dear to him.”

The evening went on very happily after that:  Marian at the piano, playing plaintive dreamy melodies with a tender expressive touch; Gilbert sitting close at hand, watching the face he loved so dearly—­an evening in Paradise, as it seemed to Mr. Fenton.  He went homewards in the moonlight a little before eleven o’clock, thinking of his new happiness—­such perfect happiness, without a cloud.  The bright suburban villa was no longer an airy castle, perhaps never to be realized; it was a delightful certainty.  He began to speculate as to the number of months that must needs pass before he could make Marian his wife.  There was no reason for delay.  He was well-off, his own master, and it was only her will that could hinder the speedy realization of that sweet domestic dream which had haunted him lately.

He told his sister what had happened next morning, when Martin Lister had left the breakfast table to hold audience with his farm bailiff, and those two were together alone.  He was a little tired of having his visits to the cottage criticised in Mrs. Lister’s somewhat supercilious manner, and was very glad to be able to announce that Marian Nowell was to be his wife.