Toward sunset of that soft June day, when Uncle and Aunt Dinks--the
latter humiliated and alarmed--were gone, and the honest neighbors were
gone, Hope Wayne was sitting upon the very bench where, as she once sat
reading, Abel Newt had thrown a shadow upon her book. But not even
the memory of that hour or that youth now threw a shadow upon her heart
or life. The eyes with which she watched the setting sun were as free
from sorrow as they were from guile.

Lawrence Newt was standing near the window in the library, looking up at
the portrait that hung there, and deep into the soft, dark eyes. He had a
trustful, candid air, as if he were seeking from it a benediction or
consolation. As the long sunset light swept across the room, and touched
tenderly the tender girl's face of the portrait, it seemed to him to
smile tranquilly and trustingly, as if it understood and answered his
confidence, and a deep peace fell upon his heart.

And high above, from her window that looked westward--with a clearer,
softer gaze, as if Time had cleared and softened the doubts and
obscurities of life--Mrs. Simcoe's face was turned to the setting sun.

Behind the distant dark-blue hills the June sun set--set upon three
hearts, at least, that Time and Life had taught and tempered--upon three
hearts that were brought together then and there, not altogether
understanding each other, but ready and willing to understand. As it
darkened within the library and the picture was hidden, Lawrence Newt
stood at the window and looked upon the lawn where Hope was sitting. He
heard a murmuring voice above him, and in the clear, silent air Hope
heard it too. It was only a murmur mingling with the whisper of the
pine-trees. But Hope knew what it was, though she could not hear the
words. And yet the words were heard:

"I hold Thee with a trembling hand,
And will not let Thee go;
Till steadfastly by faith I stand,
And all Thy goodness know."

CHAPTER XLIX.

A SELECT PARTY.

On a pleasant evening in the same month of June Mr. Abel Newt entertained
a few friends at supper. The same June air, with less fragrance, perhaps,
blew in at the open windows, which looked outside upon nothing but the
street and the house walls opposite, but inside upon luxury and ease.

It mattered little what was outside, for heavy muslin curtains hung over
the windows; and the light, the beauty, the revelry, were all within.

The boyish look was entirely gone now fro