ho soar be condemned to eternal loneliness, and was it a
longing they did not comprehend which bade them stretch their wings
toward the sun? Who can say?

Alas, we cannot write of the future of Austen and Victoria Vane! We can
only surmise, and hope, and pray,--yes, and believe. Romance walks with
parted lips and head raised to the sky; and let us follow her, because
thereby our eyes are raised with hers. We must believe, or perish.

Postscripts are not fashionable. The satiated theatre goer leaves before
the end of the play, and has worked out the problem for himself long
before the end of the last act. Sentiment is not supposed to exist in
the orchestra seats. But above (in many senses) is the gallery, from
whence an excited voice cries out when the sleeper returns to life,
"It's Rip Van Winkle!" The gallery, where are the human passions which
make this world our world; the gallery, played upon by anger, vengeance,
derision, triumph, hate, and love; the gallery, which lingers and
applauds long after the fifth curtain, and then goes reluctantly
home--to dream. And he who scorns the gallery is no artist, for there
lives the soul of art. We raise our eyes to it, and to it we dedicate
this our play;--and for it we lift the curtain once more after those in
the orchestra have departed.

It is obviously impossible, in a few words, to depict the excitement in
Ripton, in Leith, in the State at large, when it became known that the
daughter of Mr. Flint was to marry Austen Vane,--a fitting if unexpected
climax to a drama. How would Mr. Flint take it? Mr. Flint, it may be
said, took it philosophically; and when Austen went up to see him upon
this matter, he shook hands with his future son-in-law,--and they
agreed to disagree. And beyond this it is safe to say that Mr. Flint
was relieved; for in his secret soul he had for many years entertained a
dread that Victoria might marry a foreigner. He had this consolation at
any rate.

His wife denied herself for a day to her most intimate friends,--for
it was she who had entertained visions of a title; and it was
characteristic of the Rose of Sharon that she knew nothing of the Vanes
beyond the name. The discovery that the Austens were the oldest family
in the State was in the nature of a balm; and henceforth, in speaking of
Austen, she never failed to mention the fact that his great-grandfather
was Minister to Spain in the '30's,--a period when her own was engaged
in a far different