The day after she came I went with her to visit Carrie, who, the physicians said, was in a decline.  I had not seen her before since her return, and on entering the sick-room, I was as much surprised at her haggard face, sunken eyes, and sallow skin, as was Mr. Ashmore at the appearance of Emma.  “Is it possible,” said he, coming forward, “is it possible, Emma—­Mrs. Evelyn, that you have entirely recovered?”

I remembered what he had once said about “invalid wives,” and I feared that the comparison he was evidently making would not be very favorable toward Carrie.  We afterward learned, however, that he was the kindest of husbands, frequently walking half the night with his crying baby, and at other times trying to soothe his nervous wife, who was sometimes very irritable.

Before we left Carrie drew Emma closely to her and said, “They tell me I probably shall never get well, and now, while I have time, I wish to ask your forgiveness for the great wrong I once did you.”

“How?  When?” asked Emma quickly, and Carrie contined: 

“When first I saw him who is my husband, I determined to leave no means untried to secure him for myself; I knew you were engaged, but I fancied that your ill-health annoyed him, and played my part well.  You know how I succeeded, but I am sure you forgive me, for you love Mr. Evelyn quite as well, perhaps better.”

“Yes, far better,” was Emma’s reply, as she kissed Carrie’s wan cheek; then bidding her good-by she promised to call frequently during her stay in town.  She kept her word, and was often accompanied by Mr. Evelyn, who strove faithfully and successfully, too, to lead into the path of peace her whose days were well-nigh ended.

’Twas on one of those bright days in the Indian summer time that Carrie at last slept the sleep that knows no awakening.  The evening after the burial I went in at Captain Howard’s, and all the animosity I had cherished for Mr. Ashmore vanished when I saw the large tear drops as they fell on the face of his motherless babe, whose wailing cries he endeavored in vain to hush.  When the first snowflakes came they fell on a little mound, where by the side of her mother Mr. Ashmore had laid his baby, Emma.

    Side by side they are sleeping,
      In the grave’s dark, dreamless bed;
    While the willow boughs seem weeping,
      As they bend above the dead.

And now, dear reader, after telling you that, yielding to the importunities of Emma’s parents, Mr. Evelyn at last moved to the city, where, if I mistake not, he is still living, my story is finished.  But do not, I pray you, think that these few pages contain all that I know of the olden time: 

    Oh no, far down in memory’s well
      Exhaustless stores remain,
    From which, perchance, some future day
      I’ll weave a tale again.

THE GILBERTS; OR, RICE CORNER NUMBER TWO.