oman's life, and has accepted it
with genuine gratitude. In ministering to her brother and her brother's
child, now a stalwart lad, in watching with untiring eyes and helping
with ready wit the unused proprietor in his new circumstances, and in
assisting the poor around her, she finds her days full of toil and
significance, and her nights brief with grateful sleep. She is the great
lady of the village, holding high consideration from her relationship to
the proprietor, and bestowing importance upon him by her revelation of
his origin and his city associations.

The special summer evening to which we allude is one which has long been
looked forward to by all the people in whom our story has made the
reader sympathetically interested. It is an anniversary--the fifth since
the new family took up their residence in the grand house. Mr. and Mrs.
Balfour with their boy are there. Sam Yates is there--now the agent of
the mill--a trusty, prosperous man; and by a process of which we have
had no opportunity to note the details, he has transformed Miss Snow
into Mrs. Yates. The matter was concluded some years ago, and they seem
quite wonted to each other. The Rev. Mr. Snow, grown thinner and grayer,
and a great deal happier, is there with his wife and his two unmarried
daughters. He finds it easier to "take things as they air," than
formerly, and, by his old bridge, holds them against all comers. And who
is this, and who are these? Jim Fenton, very much smoothed exteriorly,
but jolly, acute, outspoken, peculiar as ever. He walks around the
garden with a boy on his shoulder. The "little feller" that originally
appeared in Mr. Benedict's plans of the new hotel is now in his
hands--veritable flesh and blood; and "the little woman," sitting with
Mrs. Snow, while Mrs. Dillingham directs the arrangement of the banquet
that is being spread in the pagoda, watches the pair, and exclaims:
"Look at them! now isn't it ridiculous?"

The warm sun hides himself behind the western hill, though still an hour
above his setting. The roar of the falling river rises to their ears,
the sound of the factory bell echoes among the hills, and the crowd of
grimy workmen and workwomen pours forth, darkening the one street that
leads from the mill, and dissipating itself among the waiting cottages.
All is tranquillity and beauty, while the party gather to their out-door
feast.

It is hardly a merry company, though a very happy one. It is the latest
issue o