so long missed, saying:--

"And so you have come home to stay,--Robert,--my boy!"

"Yes," in a glad, ringing voice,--withdrawing one hand from the doctor's
and putting it into Mrs. Burnett's eager clasp--"yes, Barbara and Malcom
have brought me home. Malcom showed me it was my duty to come, and
Barbara has made it a delight."

Epilogue.

Three Years After.

In one of New England's fairest villas, only a little way from the spot
where we first found her, lives Barbara to-day. For more than two years
she has been the wife of Robert Sumner. The faces of both tell of happy
years, which have been bounteous in blessing. A new expression glows in
Robert Sumner's eyes; the hint of a life whose energy is life-giving.
All his powers are on the alert. His name bids fair to become known far
and wide in his native land as a force for good in art, literature,
philanthropy, and public service. And in everything Barbara holds equal
pace with him. Whatever he undertakes, he goes to her young, fresh
enthusiasm to be strengthened for the endeavor; he measures his own
judgment against her wise, individual ways of thinking, and gains new
trust in himself from her abiding confidence.

In the library of their home, surrounded by countless rare souvenirs of
Italy, hangs a portrait of Howard Sinclair given to Barbara by his aged
grandmother, who now rests beside her darling boy in beautiful Mount
Auburn.

Dr. Burnett's low, rambling house has given place to a more stately one;
but it stands behind the same tall trees, amidst the same wide, green
spaces. And here is Bettina,--the same Betty,--broadened and enriched by
the intervening years of gracious living; still almost hand in hand with
her sister Barbara. Together they study and enjoy and sympathize; and
together they are striving to bless as many lives as possible by a wise
use of Howard's gift to Barbara.

They are not letting slip that which they learned of the art of the Old
World, but are adding to it continually in anticipation of the time when
they will again be in its midst. They believe that study of the old
masters' pictures is a peculiar source of culture, and they delight in
procuring photographs and rare reproductions for themselves and their
friends. Their faces are familiar in the art-stores and picture
galleries of Boston.

Good Dr. and Mrs. Burnett have grown more than three years younger by
dropping so many burdens of life. They no longer count any ways