EPILOGUE.

FIVE years after the scene just related. We
are at the opposite coast, at a charming house
close to Dover, with the sea—the English sea
—laving the great white cliffs below. On clear
days, the place of banishment could be made
out. It was going on as usual. The scourge
had been forgotten, but the Vivian scandal had
not, though much faded and attenuated. "To
have married a second wife the day after the
death of his first!" was the essence of it; though
the circumstances which forced that haste upon
him were often pleaded. The colony had grown
gayer even. House rents had risen. More
fashionables were coming every year. Le Bœuf
had added a wing to the Royal. The Blacker
stick still took its usual exercise in the way of
flourishing. The old round was going on.

In the pretty house near Dover, it was about
nine o'clock of a summer's evening. The claret
was being drunk, and two gentlemen were
sitting there, drinking the claret. It was Saturday
night. A letter had just gone over.

"Now, I hope," said the gentleman of the
house, warmly, "that is only to be a beginning;
at least, every Saturday we shall look for you,
so long as we are here. You can pack up the
odious briefs, and be back by the coach on
Tuesday. That is to be a fixed arrangement,
is it not? My dear West, now that I know
you, and value you, there is no one I should
wish to see so much of."

"Business, dreadful business," said the other,
smiling, "which I have foolishly gone back to.
I am afraid——"

"What, carrying out that poor priest's
'laborare est orare,' as you told me. That is
not the sense he meant it in. He would come
back from his grave to reprove you. See what
I have done, West, given up the dear army, all
to please Lucy." The two gentlemen talked a
great deal together.

"It is so curious to me," said Vivian, "to
think, as I go out of a morning, of that place
opposite, and that Fate should have set me
down here, in front of it, as it were. What a
deal we went through, both of us—all of us."

West could think, could talk, of those days
now without trouble.

"A strange story of a mistake and folly," he
said, quietly.

"Do you remember the flurry of these last
days—that last morning? And the pestilence,
and all. It seems like a dream now. You talk
of folly, my dear West, but I have often speculated
what could you have been thinking of me
and my strange behaviour? Well, I suffered
enough; and if I did commit folly, I atoned for it.
I must tell you we are with friends now, West;
and, indeed, you have a little to know."

"My dear Vivian," said the other, "not I.
I am a lawyer, and can guess, at least, enough
that will do for me. Well, what do you think,
as a mere matter of curiosity, some designing
Frenchman, and their family. You, a boy, a
child. The daughter was——"

"I see, you know enough. I was, indeed, a
child; she was double my age. I fell ill of
fever in a strange, solitary French town. These
people got me into their house—a scoundrel of
a French captain. It was shocking, terrible!
The day before the marriage, she was in one of
those terrible fits. Oh, what I went through!
Surely I deserve some peace and happiness now."

There was a long pause.

"And Lucy," said West, hesitating.

"Hush!" said Vivian. "Not a word to her.
The Dear Girl suspects, and knows it all, I am
convinced. But she wishes that I should think
she knows nothing, so it must be a mystery to
the end."

"Dear Girl, indeed," said West.

"Let us come in now. I am sure she has
tea ready."

A bright-lit room, yet of a softened effulgence,
pretty furniture, mellow colours, makes a
charming frame for Lucy and her child's smile
and young voice and engaging ways: a little
girl—Gilbert's godchild. The smile brightens
as she looks up and sees Gilbert enter. He goes
over and sits beside her. He looks younger by
ten years than he did in the colony days. His
brow is clear; his eyes are brighter. He has a
gaiety of manner now. He talks to her with
confidence and laughter, and a pleasant fancy.
As he does so, his godchild toddles over to him.
He smiles as he pats her head. Lucy smiles too.
The old dream has gone. In its place has come
a reality—better than a thousand of such Queen
Mab's visits.

Vivian is at the door, gay and happy. He
is singing, softly—what song do we suppose?—

The light of her eye,
That mirrors the sky.

Lucy gives a delighted laugh, and claps her
hands.

"Vivian, dear, you know Harco is coming
down on Monday."

She is still what she was, and ever will be,
THE DEAR GIRL.

THE END OF THE DEAR GIRL.

Next week will appear the second Portion of

GEORGE SILVERMAN'S
EXPLANATION.

BY CHARLES DICKENS.

The third and concluding Portion will be published in
No. 462, for Saturday, 29th instant

The third Portion of

HOLIDAY ROMANCE,

BY CHARLES DICKENS,

Will be published in No. 463, on Saturday, 7th March.

The Romance will be concluded in the monthly part for

April.