re
were alive to meet Ethel and myself."

"To be sure you do. But I dare say that he is glad now to have passed
out of it. Death is a mystery to those left, but I have no doubt it
is satisfying to those who have gone away. He died as he lived, very
properly; walked in the garden that morning as far as the strawberry
beds, and the gardener gave him the first ripe half-dozen in a young
cabbage leaf, and he ate them like a boy, and said they tasted as
if grown in Paradise, then strolled home and asked Joel to shake the
pillows on the sofa in the hall, laid himself down, shuffled his head
easy among them, and fell on sleep. So Death the Deliverer found him. A
good going home! Nothing to fear in it."

"Ethel tells me that Mr. Mostyn is now living at Mostyn Hall."

"Yes, he married that girl he would have sold his soul for and took her
there, four months only after her husband's death. When I was young he
durst not have done it, the Yorkshire gentry would have cut them both."

"I think," said Tyrrel, "American gentlemen of to-day felt much the
same. Will Madison told me that the club cut him as soon as Mrs.
Stanhope left her husband. He went there one day after it was known, and
no one saw him; finally he walked up to McLean, and would have sat down,
but McLean said, 'Your company is not desired, Mr. Mostyn.' Mostyn said
something in re-ply, and McLean answered sternly, 'True, we are none
of us saints, but there are lines the worst of us will not pass; and
if there is any member of this club willing to interfere between a
bridegroom and his bride, I would like to kick him out of it.'
Mostyn struck the table with some exclamation, and McLean continued,
'Especially when the wronged husband is a gentleman of such stainless
character and unsuspecting nature as Basil Stanhope--a clergyman also!
Oh, the thing is beyond palliation entirely!' And he walked away and
left Mostyn."

"Well," said Madam, "if it came to kicking, two could play that game.
Fred is no coward. I don't want to hear another word about them. They
will punish each other without our help. Let them alone. I hope you are
not going to have a crowd at your wedding. The quietest weddings are the
luckiest ones."

"About twenty of our most intimate friends are invited to the church,"
said Ethel. "There will be no reception until we return to New York in
the fall."

"No need of fuss here, there will be enough when you reach Monk-Rawdon.
The village will be garland