“Good gracious me!” says Mr. Miller, turning rather red, and looking bewilderedly from his daughter to his wife:  “I don’t really understand.  Caroline, my dear, do you know the meaning of these—­these—­most extraordinary objects?”

Mrs. Miller draws near and examines the little heap of faded finery critically.  “Why, Beatrice!” she exclaims, in astonishment, “it is your last summer’s sunshade, and a pair of your old gloves:  how on earth did they come here on your papa’s plate?”

“I put them there; I thought papa would like to see them again,” cries Beatrice, laughing; “he met them in Herbert’s rooms in the Temple one day last summer.”

“Beatrice!” falters her father, staring in amazement at her.

“Yes, papa, dear, don’t be too dreadfully shocked at me; it was I, your very naughty daughter, who had gone on the sly to see Herbert in the Temple, and I ran into the next room to hide myself when I heard you come in, and left those stupid tell-tale things on the table!  I don’t think, now I am Herbert’s wife, that it matters very much how much I confess of my improprieties, does it?”

“Good gracious me!” says Mr. Miller, solemnly, and then turns round and shakes hands with his son-in-law.  “And I might have retained you for that libel case after all, instead of getting in a young fool who lost it for me!” was all he said.  And then the sunshade and the gloves were swept away, and they all sat down and ate a very good breakfast, and drank to the bride and bridegroom’s health none the less heartily for that curious little explanatory scene at the beginning of the feast.

* * * * *

Maurice Kynaston has joined his brother in Australia, where, report says, they are doing very well, and rapidly making a large fortune; although no one thinks that either brother will ever leave the country of his adoption and return to England.

Old Lady Kynaston lives on alone at Walpole Lodge; she is getting very aged, and is a dull, solitary old woman now, with an ever-present sadness at her heart.

Before he left England Maurice told her the story of his love for Vera, and the whole truth about her death.  The old lady knows that Vera and her fatal beauty has wrecked the lives of both her sons.  There will be no tender filial hands to close her dying eyes, no troops of merry grandchildren to cheer and brighten her closing years.  They will live away from her, and she will die alone.  She knows it—­and she is very, very sad.

In South Kensington there lives a gay, world-loving woman who keeps open house, and entertains perpetually.  She has horses and carriages, and a box at the opera, and is always to be seen faultlessly dressed and the gayest of the gay at every race meeting, and at every scene of pleasure.