There is a step beside her, and her husband bends over her with a loving look.

“It is seven years to-night since we were married, Beth.”

There are tears in her smiling eyes as she looks up into his face.

“And you have never regretted?” he asks.

“Oh, Arthur!  How could I?” and she hides her face on his breast.

“My wife! my joy!” he whispers, as he draws her closer.

“Arthur, do you remember what a silly, silly girl I used to be when I thought you had not enough of the artist-soul to understand my nature?  And here, if I hadn’t had you to criticise and encourage me, I’d never have succeeded as well as I have.”

He only kisses her for reply, and they look out over the flat-roofed city in the moonlight.  Peace! peace! sweet peace!  “Not as the world giveth, give I unto you.”  And the stars are shining down upon them in their love.  And so, dear Beth, farewell!

The evening shadows lengthen as I write, but there is another to whom we must bid farewell.  It is Clarence.  Father and mother are both dead, and in one of the quiet parts of Toronto he lives, unmarried, in his comfortable rooms.  The years have brought him a greater measure of success than once he had hoped.  The sorrow he has so bravely hidden has perhaps enabled him to touch some chord in the human hearts of his readers.  At any rate, he has a good round income now.  Edith’s children come often to twine their arms about his neck; but there are other children who love him, too.  Down in the dark, narrow streets of the city there is many a bare, desolate home that he has cheered with warmth and comfort, many a humble fireside where the little ones listen for his step, many little hands and feet protected from the cold by his benefactions.  But no matter how lowly the house, he always leaves behind some trace of his artistic nature—­a picture or a bunch of flowers, something suggestive of the beautiful, the ideal.  Sometimes, when the little ones playing about him lisp their childish praises, a softness fills his eyes and he thinks of one who is far away.  Blessed be her footsteps!  But he is not sad long.  No, he is the genial, jolly bachelor, whom everybody loves, so unlike the Clarence of long ago; and so farewell, brave heart—­fare thee well!