EPILOGUE. Finis-the fittest word to end Life's book so mystical and solemn ; The last stone of a finished column. Finis-the saddest word of all, Irrevocable, changeless, certain; The prompter's word to drop the curtain. ANON. THE personages who have passed across the stage of our drama yet being alive, we can record but little of their doings, beyond the point of history at which we have now left them. Some few facts, however, may be communicated to the spectator before they make their parting salutation. Robert Bogle is at the present moment happily married to Caroline Bradshaw, who, warned by personal experience of the vanity of human ambition and the changefulness of fortune, came to the conclusion that "a bird in the hand was worth two in a bush," and settled down with the man of her choice in a neat brick villa in the suburbs of St. Dunstan's. Happily for the High Church party, which he had intended to honour with his patronage, Robert renounced his purpose of taking Holy Orders, and at the instance of his Uncle Standish, was articled to a thriving solicitor, whose partner he eventually became. Thanks to this arrangement, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Bogle never lacked a sufficiency of worldly goods, in spite of the disappointment which came to them at the eagerly anticipated death of Mr. Standish, in whose modern mansion and estate Robert then discovered he was not destined be bear sway. Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw, who when " duty called them" to Rotherhame Castle, had resigned their pupils and their Deerhurst benefice, found themselves on their young niece's death in the awkward predicament of being without home or income, and were glad to take the first means that offered of gaining a living-neither more nor less. than a poorly paid workhouse chaplaincy. Solid comfort however came to these victims of fickle fortune in the shape of a letter from Mr. Springfield, which informed them that Lord Rotherhame, mindful that he had been the involuntary cause of their loss of preferment, had instructed him yearly to make up to them in cash the income of their former living. From the same quarter Mr. Meules received a cure of souls in St. Dunstan's, with a spacious Vicarage-house and grounds, where he now dwells with his devoted wife, and five thin light-haired boys and girls, and just outside whose gates stands a small cottage half hidden in creepers. From a latticed window in this romantic edifice, Miss Henny daily awaits with ever-recurring agitation the visits of her nieces and nephews; here also Ann gives new life to the St. Dunstan's Bible Christian Connection, and Baby Josephine calls into being antimacassars, countless in number, fearful and wonderful in design. Whether Muzza has yet succeeded in discovering a Church after her own exalted ideal, or whether she is still hunting for it in the dark regions of Impossibility, history does not reveal. Archdeacon and Mrs. Egerton have not visited Westshire since the tragic October morning when they took their daughter from her affianced husband, and, having consequently no friendly Dr. Bogle to keep them up to the mark, have sunk beyond hope into a slough of unpracticality, unpunctuality, and shortsighted trust in human nature. The wonderful prosperity which attends them, spite of the innumerable forgets, mistakes, and negligences, which should justly plunge them into complete confusion, seems a proof that, however anxious we mortals may be to bring ourselves to ruin, a kind, watchful Providence is bent on thwarting us. Their lost property invariably turns up; the Archdeacon's unlucky speculations are made up to him in legacies; always late for their trains, their trains never go off without them, and the bad world in which they perversely insist on believing seems in gratitude always careful to justify their good opinion. Miss Bartholomew has long since prophesied that their "reckless following of impulse" must inevitably bear fatal fruit-but impulses vary according to the natures from which they spring, and the Egertons' never seem to bring them any worse fate than the tender ridicule and enthusiastic goodwill of kinsfolk and neighbours. Rotherhame Castle has been given over to the care of a few worn-out old servants, who, locking up and shrouding the state apartments against a brighter day, dwell together in the huge kitchens and offices, pocket such fees as sightseers bestow upon them for their services as guides, and occasionally find occupation in entertaining large parties of convalescent invalids, sent down by Mr. Daubeny from crowded slums to recover in the pure air of heath and wood. For a year or two the place was left unvisited by any members of the Harold family; but at last, one sunny summer morning the little Lord Berkeley came down with his guardian, and revealing himself to the delighted domestics, under promise of strict secrecy, spent some hours wandering about the deserted rooms, the crumbling ruins, and the woodland surroundings of his father's home. He looked, they all said, a bright, handsome little boy, with manners merry and gracious, despite their half-veiled imperiousness, and the old people talk of him still, and long for the day when his Lordship will come among them again, and settle down in the old place with a fair young wife of his own. Mr. Daubeny's health has steadily im proved, though between his orphanages and his guardianship of the Harold children, his work has been far from light. Edward, though living chiefly at Grand Court with his aunt the Duchess, whose idol and darling he is, looks up to him with a semi-filial reverence, and the constant care of his grave and gentle friend goes far to keep the boy from the corrupting influence of flattery and luxurious. living. Lord and Lady Rotherhame have never yet returned to the Castle, but far off with a sweet infant who has come to soothe their exiled sadness and bind them together in the sacred joy of mutual parentage, they live secluded lives, communing with Nature in her most glorious homes, and serving God in man, with the service of cultured and comprehending sympathy. Lord Rotherhame has adhered to the mournful resolve taken in misery and remorse, that evening when, in his prison cell, he parted from his children. Never since has he beheld their faces. Name and history alike unknown, he lives apart, seeking to hide in oblivion the existence which dishonours them, and the old life with their once idolized father is fast becoming to his son and daughters a myth, a shadowy legend of the past. She, who alone of them all, would through every change have treasured his memory in faithful love, sleeps in an early grave. The sorrows and shocks of those dark months which robbed her of |