ip. To his
sister Rose (now Mrs. Catesby, with a blooming little infant, called
Grace Catesby) he is specially communicative. And she thinks it was a
glorious trip, and longs for the time when he will make the next. He,
furthermore, to the astonishment of Dame Tourtelot (whose husband sleeps
now under the sod), has commenced the establishment of a fine home, upon
a charming site, overlooking all Ashfield. The Squire, still stalwart,
cannot resist giving a hint of what is expected to the old Doctor, who
still wearily goes his rounds, and prays for the welfare of his flock.

He is delighted at the thought of meeting again with Adele, though he
thinks with a sigh of his lost boy. Yet he says in his old manner, "'T
is the hand of Providence; she first bloomed into grace under the roof
of our church; she comes back to adorn it with her faith and her works."

* * * * *

At a date three years later we take one more glimpse at that quiet
village of Ashfield, where we began our story. The near railway has
brought it into more intimate connection with the shore towns and the
great cities. But there is no noisy clatter of the cars to break the
quietude. On still days, indeed, the shriek of the steam-whistle or the
roar of a distant train is heard bursting over the hills, and dying in
strange echoes up and down the valley. The stage-driver's horn is heard
no longer; no longer the coach whirls into the village and delivers its
leathern pouch of letters. The Tew partners we once met are now partners
in the grave. Deacon Tourtelot (as we have already hinted) has gone to
his long home; and the dame has planted over him the slab of "Varmont"
marble, which she has bought at a bargain from his "nevvy."

The Boody tavern-keeper has long since disappeared; no teams wheel up
with the old dash at the doors of the Eagle Tavern. The creaking
sign-board even is gone from the overhanging sycamore.

Miss Almira is still among the living. She sings treble, however, no
longer; she wears spectacles; she writes no more over mystical asterisks
for the Hartford Courant. Age has brought to her at least this much of
wisdom.

The mill groans, as of old, in the valley. A new race of boys pelt the
hanging nests of the orioles; a new race of school-girls hang swinging
on the village gates at the noonings.

As for Miss Johns, she lives still,--scarce older to appearance than
twenty years before,--prim, wiry, active,--proof