"Sir Edwin, according to your desire, my wife has come to wish you good-by and good speed."

Christian held out her hand gently and gravely:

"I do wish it you—good speed wherever you go."

"Thank you, Mrs. Grey, Good-by."

"Good-by."

And so they parted—these two, whose fates had so strangely met and mingled for a little while—parted kindly, but, totally without one desire on either side that it should be otherwise. They never have met, probably never will meet again in this world.



Chapter 16.

Conclusion.

And what became of every body—the every body of this simple record of six months' household history, such as might have happened in any life? For it includes no extraordinary events, and is the history of mere ordinary people, neither better nor worse than their neighbors, making mistakes, suffering for them, retrieving them, and then struggling on, perhaps to err again. Is not this the chronicle of all existence? For we are none of us either bad or good, all perfect or wholly depraved, and our merits go as often unrewarded as our sins.

Whether the future career of Sir Edwin Uniacke be fair or foul, time alone can prove. At present the chances seem in favor of the former, especially as he has done the best thing a man of fortune, or any man who earns an honest livelihood, can do—he has married early, and report says, married well. She is an earl's daughter, not beautiful, and rather poor, but gentle, simple-minded, and good, as many a nobleman's daughter is, more so than girls of lesser degree and greater presumption.

Except sending marriage-cards, Sir Edwin has attempted no communication with Dr. and Mrs. Grey. Nor do they wish it. The difference between themselves and him, in wealth, rank, habits, tastes, would always make such association undesirable, even had they expected it renewed. But they did not. In their complete and contented life they had—until the marriage-cards came—almost forgotten the young man's existence.

The aunts still live at Avonside Cottage, one cultivating flowers and the other society with equal assiduity. It is to be hoped both find an equal reward. As Aunt Henrietta grows to be no longer a middle-aged, but an elderly lady, less active, less clever, and more dependent upon other people's kindness and especially upon that of the Lodge—which never fails her—she sometimes is thought to be growing a little gentler in her manner and ways, a little less suspicious, less ill-natured, less ready to see always the black and hard side of things instead of the sunny and sweet.

At any rate, there is never now the shadow of dispute between herself and her brother-in-law's family! and she always talks a great deal "about about dear Mrs. Grey," her elegant looks and manners (which are certainly patent to all), what a very good wife she has settled down into, and how much attached she is to the master. Even darkly hinting— in moments confidential—that "to my certain knowledge" Mrs. Grey had, as Christian Oakley, the opportunity of making an excellent marriage with a gentleman of family and position, who was devotedly in love with her, but whom she refused for the love of Dr. Arnold Grey. Which statement, when she came to hear it—which of course she did: every body hears every thing in Avonsbridge—only made Christian smile, half amused, half sad, to think how strangely truth can be twisted sometimes, even by well-meaning people, who are perfectly convinced in their own minds and consciences that they never tell a lie, and wouldn't do such a thing for the world.

Nevertheless, Mrs. Grey sighed, and wondered if there was any absolute truth and absolute goodness to be found any where except in her own husband—her well-beloved and honored husband.

He is "turnin' auld" now, like John Anderson in the song, and the great difference in age between himself and his wife is beginning to tell every year more plainly, so that she thinks sometimes, with a sharp pain and dread, of her own still remaining youth, fearing lest it may not be the will of God that they two should "totter down" the hill of life together. But she knows that all things—death and life included—are in His safe hands, and that sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.

It has pleased Him to drop one other bitter drop into what would otherwise have been the entire sweetness of Christian's overflowing cup. She has no children—that is, no children of her very own. Year by year, that hope of motherhood, in all its exquisite bliss, slipped away. At last it had quite to be let go, and its substitute accepted—as we most of us have, more or less, to accept the will of Heaven instead of our will, and go on our way resignedly, nay, cheerfully, knowing that, whether we see it or not, all is well.

Christian Grey had to learn this lesson, and she did learn it, not at first, but gradually. She smothered up all regrets in her silent heart, and took to her bosom those children which Providence had sent her. She devoted herself entirely to them, brought them up wisely and well, and in their love and their father's she was wholly satisfied.

The End.