late colleague--"a man
endeared to us all by the urbanity of his deportment and his social
graces; but to me especially, by the kindness of his heart and the
readiness of his sympathy."

Abel Newt was buried from his father's house. There were not many
gathered at the service in the small, plain rooms. Fanny Dinks was there,
sobered and saddened--the friend now of Hope Wayne, and of Amy, her Uncle
Lawrence's wife. Alfred was there, solemnized and frightened. The office
of Lawrence Newt & Co. was closed, and the partners and the clerks all
stood together around the coffin. Abel's mother, shrouded in black, sat
in a dim corner of the room, nervously sobbing. Abel's father, sitting in
his chair, his white hair hanging upon his shoulders, looked curiously at
all the people, while his bony fingers played upon his knees, and he said
nothing.

During all the solemn course of the service, from the gracious words, "I
am the resurrection and the life," to the final Amen which was breathed
out of the depth of many a soul there, the old man's eyes did not turn
from the clergyman. But when, after a few moments of perfect silence, two
or three men entered quietly and rapidly, and, lifting the coffin, began
to bear it softly out of the room, he looked troubled and surprised, and
glanced vaguely and inquiringly from one person to another, until, as it
was passing out of the door, his face was covered with a piteous look of
appeal: he half-rose from his chair, and reached out toward the door,
with the long white fingers clutching in the air; but Hope Wayne took the
wasted hands in hers, placed her arm behind him gently, and tenderly
pressed him back into the chair. The old man raised his eyes to her as
she stood by him, and holding one of her hands in one of his, the
spectral calmness returned into his face; while, beating his thin knee
with the other hand, he said, in the old way, as the body of his son
was borne out of his house, "Riches have wings! Riches have wings!" But
still he held Hope Wayne's hand, and from time to time raised his eyes to
her face.

CHAPTER XC.

UNDER THE MISLETOE.

The hand which held that of old Boniface Newt was never placed in that of
any, younger man, except for a moment; but the heart that warmed the hand
henceforward held all the world.

We have come to the last leaf, patient and gentle reader, and the girl
we saw sitting, long ago, upon the lawn and walking in the garden of
Pinewood is