The years sped on; some were gathered to their homes above; some found new relations and strong ties to bind them here, until, at length, Dawn’s eighteenth birth-day came, bright and sunny over the eastern hills.  On the morrow, with her father, she was to leave for the city where they were to embark for England.  The morning was passed in receiving the calls of friends, and later Mr. and Mrs. Temple and Miss Evans came to dine with them.  The evening was spent by Dawn alone with her father.

The next day, Florence, now a happy wife and mother, came to see them off.  It had seemed to her for a month previous that all her partings with them had been final adieus, and now the moment was at hand which was really to separate them-for how long she knew not.  It was not strange that a vein of sadness ran through the pleasure of the hour.  But each strove to conceal aught that would mar the joy with which Dawn anticipated her journey, and the gladness which Florence would experience on their return was by her made to do service at this their time of departure.

Hugh took the hand of Florence in his own, and held it so closely that his very soul seemed to vibrate its every nerve.  Then his lips touched her brow; fond good-byes were exchanged, the quick closing of the carriage door was heard, and they were gone.

Statue-like stood Florence for several moments, then going to the room she had for so many years occupied, she permitted her tears to flow, tears which she had kept back so nobly for their sake.  Her husband walked through the garden with a sense of loneliness he scarce expected to experience; and then back to the library, where he awaited the appearance of his wife.

She came down soon with a smile on her face, but the swollen eyes showed the grief she had been struggling with.

“We must look cheerful for Miss Evans’ sake,” he said, kissing her; for, somehow he felt as though she too had gone, and he must assure himself that it was not her shadow alone that stood before him.

“It is so nice,” she said brightly, “that Hugh has prevailed on Miss Evans to remain here during his absence.  It would be so lonely with only Aunt Susan at home.  As it is, we can see the library and drawing-room open, and we shall not feel his absence so keenly.”

“And what a charming place for her to write her book in,” remarked Herbert, walking to the bay-window that overlooked the garden.

“We can come over every week and see her and the house, which will be next thing to seeing Dawn and her father,” said his wife, earnestly.

Despite all his theory, his large and unselfish heart, a strange feeling came over him, a cloud flitted over his sunny nature.  It was hardly discernable, and yet were it to take a form in words, might have displayed itself thus:  “I fear she loves them better than me.”  He shook the feeling off, as though it was a tempter, and said fondly: