In one of New England’s fairest villas, only a little way from the spot where we first found her, lives Barbara to-day.  For more than two years she has been the wife of Robert Sumner.  The faces of both tell of happy years, which have been bounteous in blessing.  A new expression glows in Robert Sumner’s eyes; the hint of a life whose energy is life-giving.  All his powers are on the alert.  His name bids fair to become known far and wide in his native land as a force for good in art, literature, philanthropy, and public service.  And in everything Barbara holds equal pace with him.  Whatever he undertakes, he goes to her young, fresh enthusiasm to be strengthened for the endeavor; he measures his own judgment against her wise, individual ways of thinking, and gains new trust in himself from her abiding confidence.

In the library of their home, surrounded by countless rare souvenirs of Italy, hangs a portrait of Howard Sinclair given to Barbara by his aged grandmother, who now rests beside her darling boy in beautiful Mount Auburn.

Dr. Burnett’s low, rambling house has given place to a more stately one; but it stands behind the same tall trees, amidst the same wide, green spaces.  And here is Bettina,—­the same Betty,—­broadened and enriched by the intervening years of gracious living; still almost hand in hand with her sister Barbara.  Together they study and enjoy and sympathize; and together they are striving to bless as many lives as possible by a wise use of Howard’s gift to Barbara.

They are not letting slip that which they learned of the art of the Old World, but are adding to it continually in anticipation of the time when they will again be in its midst.  They believe that study of the old masters’ pictures is a peculiar source of culture, and they delight in procuring photographs and rare reproductions for themselves and their friends.  Their faces are familiar in the art-stores and picture galleries of Boston.

Good Dr. and Mrs. Burnett have grown more than three years younger by dropping so many burdens of life.  They no longer count any ways and means save those of enlarging their own and their children’s lives, and of making their home a happy, healthful centre from which all shall go forth daily to help in the world’s growth and to minister to its needs.

Richard, Lois, Margaret, and Bertie, endowed with all the best available helps, are hard at work getting furnished for coming years.

Margery, entering into a lovely young womanhood, still lives with her mother and Malcom in the grand old colonial house in which many generations of her ancestors have dwelt.

Mrs. Douglas is quite as happy in the close vicinity of her brother as she thought she would be.  Every day she rejoices in his home, in his work and growing fame.  Barbara grows dearer to her continually as she realizes what a blessing she is to his life.  Indeed, so wholly natural and just-the-thing-to-be-expected does it now seem that her brother should fall in love with Barbara, that she grows ever more amazed that she did not think of it before it happened; and, when she recalls her surmises and little sisterly schemes concerning him and Lucile Sherman, she wonders at her own stupidity.